


No More Regrets

by The_Lowlifes_Back



Series: No More Regrets Universe [1]
Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 3
Genre: ...fuck look at all these tags!, Age Regression/De-Aging, Angst, Butch Deloria Makes One Fine Man~, Character Death Fix, Eventual Smut, F/M, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, I Blame Tumblr, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, LMAO, Leather Jackets, One-Sided Attraction, Past Relationship(s), Rape/Non-con Elements, Redemption, Romance, Science Fiction, Second Chances, Sibling Incest, Teen Romance, Time Travel Fix-It, Triggers, Vault 101, alternate time lines
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-19
Updated: 2018-05-31
Packaged: 2018-11-02 11:27:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 10
Words: 124,434
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10943574
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Lowlifes_Back/pseuds/The_Lowlifes_Back
Summary: What if you could change the past?-All he can hear are her final words. “…erase…your…regrets…”They called themselves “reborn”…The New Enclave.Made up of scientists… with infinite ideas.Terrible, crazy, shitty ideas.-Eden bellowed. “We shall bend very time itself to our own will and the America of yesterday, can be the America of today!”He took shit for granted, his bed, his youth, and even his wife…10 years hadn’t been enough.It just wasn’t enough… and he wasn’t ready, goddamnit!-He was yelling at her then, while she's just smiling up at him. “FUCK- I said to stay…I told you-I TOLD YOU! WHY DIDN’T YOU LISTEN?!”  It hurts more than dying himself.This story is the answer to the question, what if Butch was 17 again, after living his life out fully? What would he do with a 2nd chance? What would a man do with more time?-He wakes up to her and his reaction is automatic. his words pure.“…My god, you get younger every day, Angel-baby…”-She’s 16 and looking at him like he’s crazy. “…Wally really knocked your block off didn’t he?” And he realizes then, that now...now he’s not going to waste his time,because now he’s got more than enough.





	1. The End at The Beginning

**Author's Note:**

> ((Hey...it's nice to be back...again. Hope I can make someone's day better with this story, because writing this chapter, sure made mine better!))  
> DISCLAIMER: I don't own anything, except Evangeline's Personality, but not much else, haha.

**No More Regrets**

10 years.

That’s almost how long it took for him to become a man.

Not when he had his first shot of whiskey, with his boys cracking jokes in the diner, 14 years old and scrawny. Way back when, in his teenage years that he just couldn’t imagine anymore, no it wasn’t back then. Not when he first learned how to fire a pistol right or when he killed someone for the first time. Not even when he got laid for the first time, or fell in love with the girl he’d never thought he’d be good enough for. Not even when he married her.

Not when his Ma’ kicked him out, after the vault rebellion started and he’d opted for freedom instead of a life of the same. It was the first real choice, that he’d made all on his own that was of real impact in his life, but even then he wasn’t a full grown man. He wasn’t even a man when he waltzed out of that great big steel door and into a goddamned warzone of a world, without even looking behind him. Hell that might have just made him an idiot or even worse…a dewy eyed dreamer. He liked to think he’d grown a lot, walking beside the women who’d he’d been nothing, but an asshole towards as an asshole kid, only to be shown up by her on a daily basis. Being humbled by anyone you used to bully will do that to you.

Being shown how to aim down the sights by a girl who’s a lot smaller than you are, forces you to swallow your pride. It forced him to be thankful for her and made his heart race with adrenaline, showed him what life really was. It made him realize that he respected her and that she wasn’t the most terrible person to be stuck outside of the vault with. It makes you see how greedy you are, when you start thinking of someone else’s problems.

Guilt for what you did or didn’t do when you were young, and more than his share of regrets.

It’ll make you grow up real fast, when you ain’t got nothing left to live for and she’s been living with you since before you could walk. She became his reason for living, stupid jokes and mean nicknames. The caps and the roof over his head, she was everything keeping him fed and happy. He wasn’t blind to how smart she was, or strong and that made him wanna learn how to be just as strong and just as good a shot. He grew up beside her **real** fast.

When no one’s left to care if you’re alive or not, sometimes it’s the least likely person, which keeps you counting the hours. It turns you bitter too, if you let it, if you’re being unthankful for who you’ve got or being too stuck on who you don’t anymore. He’d left it all behind. His boys, his mother, and his childhood home, that only ever felt like a maze of tunnels and un-fulfillment. Since that day that little blonde picked him up again at the bar though, not once had he regretted buying her that drink.

He felt alive outside, freer than he’d ever felt and when that feeling died in him, she’s the one who gave him purpose again. When the new feelings of rebellious youth faded out of him, she’s the one who made life good. The sight of her just sitting there on their beat-up pre-war couch, which had just been hers to begin with, till he came along…the normal it brought to his life. Too damn good of a woman for an old leathery serpent like him, even back then.

He thought he was an untouchable hard ass for a while, hiding all his feelings and coming home with one too many shots in him. It started to wear on them both, but then she went digging into his heart one day and sooner than later, she made him face his demons. One by one, their conversations deepened and their trust between each other, had extended off of the battle field. Little secrets, like how he’d never had a father and how jealous he’d been of hers. Seeing her smiling, her dad smiling back when they were in the vault. How much he actually really did hurt for her losing him, and the way she cried at night about it, he told her it never bothered him.

He just wanted her to know that he was sorry.

Little regrets, like how much it hurt him, that one of the men he’d called “brother” had died. One brother died and the other had betrayed him. How much he regretted not being able to save Paul or say goodbye to his mother. That he was just like his mother in a lot of ways and he hated that about himself. He was terrified of being all alone, alone and pushed aside in the world without anyone who knew him and no one who cared.

That made him drink like his Ma’ too, made him overcompensate more than he ever wanted to say. Angie just sat there and listened to him too. She held him, made him feel smaller than her for once and just didn’t judge him. She started saying she was afraid after that…she was just like her father and she was just as terrified of being alone again, as he was. She told him that he made her feel less lonely and she was afraid of that too.

Being alone was something both him and The Lone Wanderer, dreaded on a daily basis.

It was a fear they both endured, because for him, his Ma’, Wally, and Paul, were the only family he’d ever really known. They were family and they all dropped him when things got tough. He didn’t know what he’d do, if she ever wised up and did the same. He’d told her one night, them sitting at Moriarty’s drinking after a tough job, that he was always walking with a chip on his shoulder. Admitting for once when she’d called him out on it that, _‘Yeah, you know what, Angie? Yeah I do! I really do….I always have something to prove to someone!’_

Admitting that when they were growing up, he was scared out of his mind of not being good enough for anything, of being the failure everyone always told him he was.

How when his Ma’ tossed him aside, he was left with nothing, but a gun, a leather jacket, and a pair of coattails to chase after. That he’d dreamed of something better and that he didn’t feel sorry about dreaming about it. That in the end, the Wasteland really had to be better, than a life of being a nothing to nobody forever. In the end, he was something to the girl drinking there with him at least. He’d really left that vault without anything, but his imagination though and a hope for something better, a life without anything to prove.

A pipe dream.

He’d hated the thought of never amounting to anything. Being laughed at, because people wouldn’t see him as anything more than a “hairdresser” or the vault screw up. It’s what drove him crazy in the hallways and made him drink too much in the lower levels of 101. The thought of how worthless he really was, kept him awake in his dorm at night and kept him fist fighting in the hallways. The sad part is, he loved cutting hair and yet, he wanted more, so he’d become the Overseer’s Lap dog just to feel like he could do something.

He sold himself short on everything, just to prove that he wasn’t worthless.

In the end, the Overseer was a royal asshole and Butch knew he’d never get what he wanted from him. He wanted more. He wanted something good for once. He wanted people to be afraid of him, or to just like him, to just remember him. He wanted something that he’d have never be able to have down in 101.

That chip wasn’t just about his home life or his friends either or his self-worth. He’d been with her under the stars, staring up at the dark half of the Big Blue Empty, Dogmeat as his pillow, when he brought up something he didn’t even mean to. His mouth running off about how, he was just so pent up about a girl, who he was too dumb to understand he wanted. That he’d wanted her so bad, that it ate away at him. It ate at him because she was too good for a bastard like him and knowing that, had turned him mean.

It made him do anything just to get her too look at him. He’d of done anything, just to get too close, to make her yell at him. That feeling was everything he was. Hating himself, desperate for more, but unable to be anything less than what the Overseer made him. That’s why he liked to kick in lockers and why he put gum in her hair.

He was angry at what life had given him and he was ashamed of it. That’s what she somehow coaxed out of him gently, with those blue eyes of hers, damn near sparkling in the firelight. The days walking with her grew into something relaxed, friendly, and peaceful even in the violence. He suddenly looked for her voice everywhere he’d go, whether it was just down their stairs or around the corner in the middle of battle. She became his friend.

He was broken, beat up, wily, and even though they’d became friends, just looking at her made him want to get her to look back, even now. It made his blood boil seeing her walking ahead of him, only not for the same reasons as before. He’d been too stubborn to see it in the vault, but it was killing him how pretty she was. He’d been too afraid to touch her, but out here she felt touchable. She’d let him put his arm around her, she’d actually smile at him when he did good, and she was always nudging him, or touching him somewhere.

Yet somethings about her, just pissed him off to no end.

She’d just had to be the Savior of The Wasteland, every chance she got. No matter the cost to him or their personal wants. No matter how dangerous it was for her, no matter the cost, or who’s bleeding heart it was, she was selfless. She always wanted to do the **right** thing for everyone. In the end, loving her made him want to do the right things too, if for no other reason, than just so she’d stay with him.

If not to help some stranger, than just to keep her alive and in the end, she’s the reason why he’d become so soft. The reason he was afraid of dying, of letting her down, and every reason he wanted to keep on breathing. She made him care about more than just himself, because he started to care about her past himself, past just being her partner, or telling bad jokes to her, because she was the only one who’d listen to them. He realized that if he didn’t learn how to live life fast and deadly, if he didn’t learn how to survive, then he could lose her one day. He knew she’d never change either, but he didn’t want to be alone and he could never leave her alone, so there he was…

Rescuing every kitten stuck in a burning tree that they could find, no matter who was asking.

Loving someone’ll make you a whole lot less selfish, when you could lose them any second. Especially someone like her. He never knew what it would be like to be without her forever, because in his mind, she always came back somehow. She came back to the vault, she came back to him in the bar, and she always came back home even if she was gone for a week. As the years moved on, he started to worry about her…about other people too.

None of that makes you a real man though, not that you’d know it at the time. Nah. It took him 10 years for him to realize, that becoming a man isn’t just one, stupid, youthful fuckin’ moment. Its blood and sweat…tears even. Its hard work and being afraid.

Being a man is admitting when you’re wrong or just learning how to keep your mouth shut. Being a man means being loyal to the people you love, strong when other people aren’t going to be, and embracing the things you hate about yourself. Being a man is learning from your mistakes or maybe it’s just getting smarter than you were. A man is what he wasn’t at 22 or even 26.

It's learning how to just be alright with what you got. It’s accepting the things you can’t change. If anything, she’d become a _man_ out here the Wastes a hell of a lot faster than he did, but even back in 101, that blonde had balls. Not that he’d ever have admitted that when he was 22 and fresh out of the vault. Damned if he wasn’t **still** growing, even when he was just starting in his 30’s about 2 years ago.

His life wasn’t an easy one, but that girl, The Lone Wanderers life? That woman made it so much simpler on him, because of what she’d gone through. She kept his ass alive, stitched up his wounds and had pushed him out of bullets, more times than his luck should have lasted. She’d gone from a Little-Goody-Two-Shoes to a Badass Wandering Legend in the span of a year without him, without anyone…all alone. He doesn’t know if he’d of even made it out of the bar again and lived another day without her, if she hadn’t come along.

To this day after every new fight and bar room brawl, every bullet or raider that comes their way, he becomes more sure, that he’d be 9 feet under without her.

She’d lost just as much, if not more than him and somehow, she’d forgiven him enough to pick up his problems too. Someone like her just shouldn’t even exist. Someone so strong, damaged and yet so fuckin’ able to care about other people. He didn’t even want to care about himself and here she was… holding the world up on her shoulders. Holding him up.

At least he could go back to the places he’d grown up in, not that he’d ever really wanted to. Amata’d been colder after becoming the boss and only after he knew, about what the Pipsqueak’s father had done for the people up here, did he really understand. The Doc and his daughter’s sacrifice went beyond what they’d wanted for themselves. Dr. Blackwell had only wanted safety for his daughter, a family, and hell, most of the things Butch had wanted. So maybe, it was just how she was raised…Goody-Two-Shoes to the bitter end.

He couldn’t understand it when he was young, because what did she get out of it? What good was it helping people? As far as he could see it, Amata had rewarded her, by shifting the sins of her father, onto her only friend and then tossed her aside, after getting what she wanted out of her. That’s what everyone did to her and it wasn’t fair, not even for a second.

Butch could see old man Almodovar, peaking out of Amata’s eyes…so it didn’t really surprise him. Like father like daughter and Angie was almost a martyr just like the Doc, one in the same. Maybe you really do learn how live by what your parents teach ya? Maybe it’s what they don’t teach you that makes you who you are. Either way, he didn’t want to think about what 101 would be like without him.

So even after fighting so hard for a “maybe I’ll come home again to visit one day”, the fear of seeing what kind of tyrant, the daddy’s girl kept him away. Guess he just didn’t want to see what she might have become while he wasn’t around. It made him never want to return again all the more, because some part of himself, wanted to pretend they’d all be fine. He knew he probably wouldn’t be missed though, so it was better to forget. He’d seen what welcome Angel had gotten…in the end he really might have been the only one who’d truly been happy to see her.

So he never went back to 101 again.

Even though as time went on, his mother would cross his mind more often. They weren’t on speaking terms when he left…at least not when she was sober. When he’d visit her for dinner and sneak back to his old home, he’d have to put her in bed half the time, or she’d of fallen asleep drunk on the couch. Maybe his Ma’ hadn’t been the perfect mother and if he stopped to think about it, he was more of the parent most days than she was, but she was still his mother in the end. One of his biggest regrets out of many, was not at least leaving her a letter or saying he loved her or goodbye.

Or just being strong enough to stay when she needed him to, even when she was yelling at him to go.

Over the years, he’d never known what it felt like to really lose it all, even when they didn’t have much to their name to begin with. Even when he’d first walked across the Wasteland with nothing but a 10mm and his bootlaces, at least he’d had hope. When she arrived at the bar, he didn’t know it, but eventually every loss he’d have in the future, from his caps to their dog, would be met with one thought shared between them. _‘Hey…at least I’ve still got you, huh? And you’re sure as hell stuck with me now…’_ Everything they earned would be theirs and not some Overseer’s, picking and choosing their lives for them like they were a bunch of lab rats. He loved that about her, that she knew how to be her own woman.

In the end, she became his hope for the future, inspiring him just like everyone else she’d ever met.

She knew how to live and it was all of the quiet moments living with her in Megaton, which had shaped him into a man. It was Doc Church’s bitching every time they’d buy Stim’s from him. The weekly bartering with the traders who’d come by and the nerve on his girl, if anyone told her “the price is non-negotiable”. It was how Lucas Simms had become more of a father to him, than anyone ever had, which made him a man. When Simms made him deputy, he was making him think about just what he was fighting for.

Simms fussed about how much he was drinking or drank with him if it was something worth drowning out. Simms cared about him and didn’t care if he got wise with him, the man treated him like a son. Butch never had a father, but Simms was damn near close and maybe he never understood why the man cared, but Butch knew what a good man looked like. Simms was old and worn, but he was strong enough to look out for his people. Old Lucas taught him one of the most important lessons of his life.

Simms taught him that being strong, doesn’t really make you a man. It’s looking out for others that does. It’s worrying about yourself enough to worry about other people. It’s caring. So, maybe in the end…caring about other people is all being a man, really was to him.

The days he fixed the leaky pipes for easy caps, which turned into wanted to see Walter’s tired face. The nights he drank with everyone at The Brass Lantern, made him care about who he was drinking with for once, instead of how strong the booze was. It was the racing in his heart when he realized he loved coming home to her, it was that feeling which started changing. The sudden knowledge that he cared more than anyone about her and that she was all he had. That she cared about him more than ever before and he suddenly wanted to be that one person, which she could lean on too.

He wanted to be the first person who actually took care of her for a change. The way his hands shook and his mouth ran off at her as they’d bicker, was almost like it was all he could do to keep from kissing her. It’s when he started to care if she saw him as someone worth walking with or not, that he started putting away childish things. It was when he couldn’t ever afford to lose her, when he started treating her softer, like she was breakable.

It was when she got shot and he patched her up, when he knew that she **was** breakable. It was then when it was getting to be his greatest fear, a fear so overwhelming, that he started to feel like he cared too damn much. He cared like a man cared about her. He cared if she was happy, what she was thinking, and if she was eating right. It was tearing him up inside and he was too dumb and too young to notice, before he finally got wise about his feelings, after too long.

The day he confided in Moira Brown, about wedding rings and how people did that kind of thing in The Wasteland, maybe that was what put hair on his chest? His shaky palms and his childish excitement coiling in him, the moment she told him, tears in her eyes, _‘…I thought we already were…you big, dumb… jerk…’_ It was the arguments he’d storm out of, only to crawl right back and apologize for, whether he was actually right or wrong in the end. He was wrapped around her fingers and she was what was keeping him warm at night. It was heaven and hell and it was growing up.

The way he’d try to push her around like when they were kids, only to feel the thrill of her pushing him back again, which was growing up. She taught him how to laugh again and those moments shaped him. It’s funny, because she was always saying that to him, _‘You know Butchie, you’re the only reason I know how to laugh at all anymore…ha, Chucklehead.’_ It was the nights when his room was so silent, when he couldn’t hear the chatter of the security force or sleep because of it. When he’d get up over the silence and she’d be crying over the blood on her hands at their kitchen table.

It was learning how to cope with all the sorrows that were always creeping up behind them, every waking hour. It was telling her it would be ok, when he didn’t know shit. How she’d swear he was the best man she ever met, even when he never ever felt that way about himself. That’s when he started caring and growing, living and helping to keep others breathing. It was when they’d helped each other fall asleep, grieving and sad, that he started getting older.

She made him a man and an almost decent one at that.

It was when he almost died every time more than once, which taught him a little bit about how precious it was. 3 times in total and each time, it was the Doc’s Kid, who’d pulled him from the fire. First time it was Radiation Poisoning when he was about 25. He’d scared the living shit out of her and she’d been cool as ice, for about a day, till she crawled into his bed and held him, crying. He learned how fragile she really was…how fragile life could truly be.

That his actions had consequences that he suddenly gave a damn about.

The 2nd time was a Deathclaw which took his right eye from him at 30, roaming the canyons around where they were out scavving. It came out of nowhere, scary as hell, quicker than anything he’d ever seen. Yet, she was faster. Against that monster, that little Pipsqueak saved him without hesitation. He learned that life’s not going to give you fair odds a long time ago, but it was stuck in his chest, his bones, and his very soul that day.

You have to fight, tooth and fang, knives and guns, all heart with all your smarts…or life will eat you alive.

…and the third? The third time is when time stood still for him, before he swore it began to move backwards. It was now. He was 32, a grizzled viper of a man, bombs going off and dust kicking up around him. The New Enclave, they called themselves.

He hadn’t been around to watch her face them, but he’d known enough to know they were ruthless. They killed The Lone Wanderer’s father, his best friend’s old man, his lover’s only parent…right in front of her. The only thing she’d clung to for the time she didn’t have him and The Enclave had taken it from her. The Enclave was why she cried in his arms at night and why she’d come home lifeless. Lifeless after visiting her father’s empty grave and drained from having a drink there.

The Enclave was a dark thief in the night, the past and the Old World’s most fucked up mistakes.

The New Enclave was just as horrible as the old one. So in the middle of this gun fight, he was about to watch it burn. Everything. Not just the people he and his wife had been walking and strategizing or inspiring for almost a year now, but **everything** in between. It was such a fucking waste, so wrong and it filled his achy old bones with fire.

Pissed off and helpless, watching the most devastating blast he’d ever seen since Megaton finally blew. His life going backwards before his one good eye. It was now, when everything felt frozen- when he realized, that he’d of done things differently… if he’d only knew what he did right then, in that one pathetic moment. In that moment, his tears burning his eye, his faded scars itching, wounded and angry, old and bitter, in that fleeting second he knew… that was about to die. He was about to die… and he wasn’t ready, goddamnit.

He hadn’t even gotten to see his kid grow up. He never got to really make up for what kind of an ass he was, when he was young. It just wasn’t enough. He never got to tell his mother he loved her or tell the Overseer that he could stick it, right to his face. He never got to tell Wally that he didn’t give a flying radrat’s ass what he thought about him.

Christy never knew how much he really appreciated her showing him how to write cursive. His cousin and his old friends, his old life, he never got to really tell them, that he was thankful for more than he’d thought he’d be. That even when his Ma’ was mostly drunk, the moments she was sober with him, up at night playing gin, talking shit about her sewing club, or just talking shit to him, those weren’t terrible moments. He took shit for granted, his bed, his youth, and even his wife…10 years hadn’t been enough. It wasn’t enough and he’d never thought he’d go quietly…he just didn’t think he’d go screaming.

He took Megaton for granted too, a bed to rest in, a place to come home to. People who might even have cared if he just stop showing up around town anymore. It just felt like it wasn’t enough. He thought he’d die one day and he was pretty sure it wasn’t gonna be of old age or in his sleep. Maybe that’s what’d always made being alive better out here though…you had to be thankful for the little things.

Thought had crossed him, that his death might be painful. He’d thought about it more than once, even if he didn’t like to think about sad shit like that. He just didn’t think it would _this_ painful. With the only good thing he’d ever known for as long as he could remember… lying bleeding in his arms. They were out of Stimpacks and out of time.

He’d seen war, he’d seen pain, he’d had joys and aches, but it just wasn’t enough! He didn’t want to go like this…even if he’d lived a full life, he just wasn’t good enough to be that thankful right then. This final battle would be the end of him and he didn’t even get to say “thank you” to the people who’d mattered. He may not have been a good man, or a selfless saint, or patient, but he was fucking LOYAL! This wasn’t how this was supposed to go and he sure as hell didn’t want to and boy…did he not see it coming till it was too late.

Their day had started out like any other too…

 

…”Don’t pack the blasting power in so tightly. What do you think you’re doing with those big ol’ hands? Here, let me. You’re bound to blow us up at this rate.” Her voice had turned into a velvet softness in his ears, day after day, even when she was griping at him. Even when she was bossing him around she still was his world. Months back, what felt like lifetimes ago to him, they’d caught wind about a section of The Enclave that was attempting to rise up again. They called themselves “reborn”, which was just something losers say, when they just don’t want to die. There was talk about it being made up of scientists and greedy assholes, with infinite ideas.

Terrible, crazy, shitty ideas.

That… had been just rumors about a year ago. Those rumors had turned into a full blow raid against their homestead. Then without much notice, he was facing off against a bunch of vengeful Power Armor clad soldiers, sporting Enclave Colors. Angie…she just went with the flow and didn’t even bat an eyelash. She was scary like that sometimes.

The woman was smart and sharper than a knife, which both annoyed him and made him proud to call her his. She was calling in favors faster than he could wrap his brain around, “invasion’s coming in 2 days”. It was enough time for them to get word out to the Citadel, but that had just been one big fuck up of a plan. The Brotherhood had deemed the threat minimal and the casualties unimportant. The bastards had told them to just evacuate…and according to Lucas Simms, that just wasn’t going to happen.

He didn’t know much about The Brotherhood though, even though Evangeline had always seemed to think real highly of them…till then.

She was just as pissed off, if not more than he was, nah he was pretty sure it was more. According to her, she’d of been dead without them, the Wasteland would have been systematically destroyed, and everything her father had died for, would have been for nothing. The Brotherhood owed her more than one favor. They might have even turned the tide, but the more he thinks about it, there really wasn’t anything anyone could have done. Maybe that’s why Lyon’s really hadn’t come for them.

Maybe she knew…and that made it sting even worse.

So, with little Intel and very quick planning, she and he were their town’s only defense. They were left with a handful of scouts and a few contacts they’d made, to prepare for what they thought was just another battle. As they got the townsfolk to defend their homes, they worked to barricade their shops and their families within the walls. He remembered wanting to get the hell out and had fought with both his wife and Simms over it, practically every minute of every hour. He didn’t think saving the town was worth losing lives over.

As the voice of Eden once again graced the world with its creepy, too human voice, it struck him then. He knew why Angel had gone so still, the first time that she’d spoken about meeting President Eden with him. **“The New Enclave has come here, to make America great again! Here my voice, America!”** They’d built what seemed like an impenetrable defense, even going so far as to put a makeshift dome over their town. It had taken a few Helibirds and a few rebellious Brotherhood initiates, but they’d built it to last.

He had worked so hard, just like everyone in Megaton, to protect it. To keep what was theirs and to just have a home to return to that was safe. He remembers being crouched on the roof of Craterside Supply, his sights aimed at the projection of Eden and his wife standing at the front line. His heart racing, his blood shooting through him like liquid fire. He’d really thought that they’d be safe, but it was just like Evangeline had said all the time.

She said it to him when he was in the shower. When he was about to fall asleep on the couch with her in his arms. In the morning cooking them breakfast, he’d hear it in his ear. Every moment, those words would haunt him. So fucking sad and too fuckin’ true…

_‘Butch, how many times do I have to tell you…you’re never safe out here…not even in your own bed…so never let your guard down.”_

He was there for what might have been the saddest moment of his life. Sitting with a gun pointed at a hologram, hearing crazy like he’d never heard crazy before…and he’d killed plenty of Raiders by then. “ **Dear People of Megaton, this is not a cry for war, but for change! We will stomp out any and all terrorists, who would dare to try to take our dream of a better tomorrow! Here, we will crush the communists who have settled on good American Soil, while extending a hand of good will!”** He’d gotten a shiver as Eden pointed to the woman he loved, and spoke to her like they were old friends. **“Wanderer, I, President Eden, am saddened by the path you have taken to get here, although your goal like mine, is a just cause. Our nation’s cause. The better future we both fight for, is what I now offer you today.”** His finger shaking on the trigger, sweat on his brow, the sun blotted out by the dome they’d built, it’s all burned into his head. He will never forget that day, the smell of Power Amor smoke and motor oil, the crackle of plasma rifles, the sound of crying children.

His woman stood firm, without a word and without a tremor. While he’d never felt more afraid for her. He watched her stare down the humanoid picture, with hatred that looked so very foreign on her face. He watched the automation go on, an army of Enclave at his back. **“If you would lay down your weapons and join us, you and I, as a united nation of many individuals, both pure and honorable, could change the course of history today. Together.”** Sharp like a whip, she snapped with that Smart Mouth of hers, inspiring and fearless. “-But no mutants right? Not them. Just not pure enough for you, if I remember. They don’t count as people do they? Not in your long dead America.”

Eden paced in the air, floating over the ground in an eerie lifelike fashion, his eyes on the woman before him. His tune still the same. **“Oh, but what if I told you there never needed to be mutants? What if The Great War had never happened? What if there was a better course of action? Would you still refuse my offer then?”** The men behind her, guns raised, ready to fight for their lives, men, women and ghouls alike, all hanging on her every reply. “We refuse to lay down our weapons…and you are not welcome here. Leave.” Lucas Simms was standing right beside her, pistol cocked, chin raised, chiming in beside her. “We don’t want any trouble.” The Enclave’s forces, cocked their rifles, threatening the cease fire with murderous intent, as Eden spoke like a true politician. **“Neither do I. Simply common ground between us.”**

The air felt like static, when he heard the murmuring of Megaton’s people below him, good people, afraid for their lives. You could cut the fear like it was a veil it was so thick, even as that brave little Pipsqueak stood strong at the head of it, her 44. At her side, her voice lacking humor. “We will fight you to our last man…ghouls and all, we are of the people…for the people. There is no common ground between this town and a tyrant…an abomination of science.” The machine without emotion, carried on. **“This country runs on a democracy that has lasted centuries… I am the perfect embodiment of science and sentience, as well as the dream that was our forefather’s legacy. …perhaps if you hear me out, we could avoid further bloodshed.”** He’d searched the crowd of soldiers for a weakness, his sights on the gates of Megaton, burnt and blown open. 

Then, like a sly serpent of a war tactician, he looked towards where they could escape like a coward and a hero. If it hadn’t been for him…the tunnel he’d dug out under the wall saved lives that day. He and Walter had used a few good men, a few good drills, and one good suit of Power Armor, but they’d made it possible. He, like everyone else had assumed they would never have to use it…because they couldn’t lose. None of them were prepared for what Eden had brought to them.

He watched her speak without fear and without a voice he’d ever heard before. **“** Eden, whatever form you have taken on- whatever you offer! …you are an aberration of science –an amalgamation of the most horrifying kind…you murdered my father and countless others at the battle for Raven Rock… and you need to die…” She was cold, calculating, and far more threatening than he thought she ever could be. He’d seen her angry, but this was a side of her he’d never seen. The side of her that didn’t need him, the girl who’d single handedly destroyed the Enclave. Then Eden, nodded his head and accepted her answer.

He then spoke to the people behind her, huddled behind barricades and make shift battlements, his voice booming with a command for attention. **“Very well…if you can not be swayed…”** There was a crack like thunder and a film of blue crashed into existence. The Lone Wanderer drew her pistol, but it was in vain. For as soon as she drew it, time stood still. She, like the rest of the Citizens of Megaton, were suspended, yet fully aware.

The Enclave began to flood in and with outstretched arms, Eden bellowed. **“We shall bend very time itself to our own will and the America of yesterday, can be the America of today!”** He couldn’t move, could only breath, and no matter how much he’d wanted to, he couldn’t pull that damn trigger. It was as if they’d all been paused, just a bad movie put on hold. It was a weapon unlike anything they had ever faced. **“History will be re-written and the true patriots will be rewarded! This test, is only the beginning of a brighter future America!”** And Eden was unlike anything he’d ever seen.

Not human in the least and not a damn thing could be done to stop him. It was torture, being forced to watch what happened next and he had one hell of a view from on that roof. Enclave everywhere, simply walking past their barricades, removing the dome, Helibirds revealed by the hundreds. Then, they made their way to the bomb, that famous scary afterthought, of what a terrible fate the world had succumbed to. He’d never felt more useless…and he was the king of feeling that way.

Eden’s voice echoed through the town, as the sunlight blinded him and the impossible happened. **“God Bless, America…”** Butch watched in horror, as the bomb was reactivated, with his wife mere feet from it…when all he’d ever built up out here, was all around it. Eden smiled. **“…and God Bless, The New World!”** and then suddenly…a miracle happened. The blue crackled, screamed and died.

…And Armageddon occurred. As time had literally stood in place, he’d never felt more helpless, but the moment it started again? It was pure adrenaline and chaos. Eden was the first to go, or his projection at least, when The Savior of The Wasteland let out a roar that actually made his hair stand on end. He’s the one who pulled the trigger.

But the countdown had already started and 5 minutes was all they’d had. Almost everyone had died, Lucas Simms being one of the first to go and Walter being one of the last, but him and his Wanderer once again survived by the skin of their teeth. They’d barely made it out themselves. In the end, they’d come out on the other side of the escape tunnel, just as the entire town and the remaining people fighting within it, went up in hellfire. Galaxy News sent out the bugle that day for the casualties, as he watched her walk away from the rubble, out of the tunnel, with Maggie Creel leaning heavily on her shoulders.

Once a Tunnel Snake, always a Tunnel Snake.

His wife’s belly was starting to show and the sight, was altogether too depressing to want to even think about ever again. Not in that terrible moment. He knew what it meant, that little tuff of fat. Looking out at the ruins of whatever future home they might have had, he was more afraid of bringing a tiny life into it than ever. The thought of bringing children into this hellish, horrible Wasteland of a world, had his blood running cold.

The thought of him being a father…him. That was worse. He couldn’t bear the thought. So, he didn’t. He put it far, far away in his mind and focused on letting his wife lean against him; put all his strength into holding her up.

The few remaining settlers, all scattered and left them to deal with the wreckage. They went to spread the stories of The Town Which Stood Still and to warn the Wasteland, that the Enclave had returned. They were alone then, the three of them, looking off atop the hill on 101, without a plan and without much hope. His wife, surely 3 months along already, his protective instincts, flaring like acid in him and it was unlike any feeling he’d ever had before. His town in ruins, as they stood there, alone and unsure, with his child growing inside her.

Standing on the ashes of where they came from, looking out on the ashes of everything they had built.

As they dropped Maggie off at Rivet, Butch had watched that girl grow taller and older every day, so it hurt him to send her off. It hurt to say goodbye to her, along with everything and everyone he’d come to care about. It hurt so much to have to start over, not once in his lifetime, but twice. He knew it had to have hurt the woman under his arm too. It was blindingly painful, because the girl had been like a daughter to them.

Yet that thought went unspoken again, as he stood with Angel under his arm and Maggie under the other. ‘ _Hey…at least I’ve still got you, huh? And you’re sure as hell stuck with me now…’_

In simpler days, he’d rough house with the kids around town and act like a bigger, louder kid himself. Now, once again everything he knew, was taken from him and he couldn’t act like a kid anymore, even if he wanted to. His kid couldn’t afford him to be anything less than a father and a fighter. He was a man now and he had to act like one. The trip to Rivet, was filled with tears, crying, and Angie… The Lone Wanderer had been silent for most of it, holding Maggie through the night on one side and him on the other. It was the night after Maggie was safely in the Flight Carrier, when she allowed herself to mourn.

Then there they were, back where they’d first met, empty, angry, and with only each other to argue with.

Him being a quarter way into a bottle of Rattle Snake Whiskey and a bed at The Weatherly Hotel for them to share. After the loss, it was so fuckin’ right to end up back in that bed with her, naked, needy, and dirty, after fighting with her over things that didn’t even matter. Ignoring everything that did. Tender, broken, and weak, his hands covered curves and scars, which he’d learned to trace like his favorite weapon. Where to touch, how to fire her up all nice, how to oil her down, and he knew how to make her go off almost too well.

She taught him everything he knew and the woman knew how to please.

He knew she’d smile if he ever told her that too. If he told her that sometimes he treated making love like a good gun cleaning. She’d probably punch him in the shoulder, smile in the way that gave her crow’s feet, and snort at him with a laugh, which would always melt his heart. He lived for her. He’d do anything for her and for the family, which he’d never meant to bring into that nightmare that should have been a dream.

He’d follow her into hell itself and he swore that he’d die for her.

That was about 8 months ago, the last night they’d made love in a bed. He was 32 and she was 31, but no matter how much older they got, he knows he’ll never be too old to want to roll around with her. He knew every scar, every curve and every inch added. He knew that alongside the belly she’d started to get to her, was a fear he couldn’t shake, but that he’d die to protect it. The woman behind the muscle and the nurturing mother he knew she’d be, how well he knew her.

He knows her body like a work of art, the softness and the strength. He knows her heart even better. He knows that she’ll always stand beside him, even when he’s not worth standing beside. He’d do anything to know her for as long as he’s got left breathing. How he regrets not knowing her like a man should have known a women, not knowing her like that for much longer than he did.

He got up this morning without one damn clue…

He got up that morning and took one long look at himself in the mirror, and damn…he looked like shit. He looked older. He looked like a man alright. His eyepatch on the bedside table, the Deathclaw that had almost lived up to its name, telling a story through the grisly scar running down the one side of his face. If that thing, had even so much as more than grazed him, he wouldn’t have lived to see the next sunrise.

As it was, now he just couldn’t see it as well.

It wasn’t just his scar though, it was the fact that his good eyed, looked almost as dead and jaded as his blind one, blue and burnt out. Like he was burnt out on life. Something about him, had changed. Actually, a lot of things. It was the hair on his barreled chest and the bulk of his muscle.

He didn’t even see it, the years catching up to him. He saw it then though, in his stubble and his own set of crow’s feet that matched his wife’s, because fuck- if laughter wasn’t contagious between them. They put a whole new meaning to “if you don’t laugh, you’re gonna cry” and they’d had plenty of both tears and laughing through the pain of living. They’d found out that the pain of living, was sometimes the joy of it too. You never really know what you have till it’s gone.

He washed his face that day and kept thinking back to a younger, paler, scrawnier, less intelligent and less beat up version of himself, but all he could see was wasted time. He’d never seen that before. His skin was dark after walking in the sunlight for so long, his tan a lot darker than the blonde’s, who was sleeping naked behind him, stirring lightly. He’d looked into that mirror expecting to see the same guy who’d strutted out of 101 like an old world bird, but instead he’d gotten what he had. A Wasteland Wanderer, A Snake, and just…one manly mother fucker.

She was stretching behind him then and making him lose his train of thought, when he caught her bare tits out of the corner of his left eye.

He liked how his hands looked on her milky breasts no matter the occasion, but something about how delicate her complexion was compared to his, sparked something in him. It always had. He loved the way they’d come to fit together, two broken pieces, with one solid foundation. The two of them were like a black and white photo. The contrast was striking and yet fit together, pretty as a picture.

He’d slicked up his ever so slightly greying hair and didn’t realize just how little shame he felt for loving it. He took joy in doing his hair up for once…shameless joy. There was a time when he’d have cared about “looking cool”, a time when he’d be shaking in his boot about his image. A time where he’d mutter to himself _, “I’m not a hairdresser, damnit.”_ But then…he really didn’t give a damn what anyone thought anymore.

So instead, he was just thankful he had good pomade and grateful for something to enjoy.

He was in nothing but the Jeans he’d worn out and patched up, ever since he’d walked out of 101 with them on, and it wasn’t just his jeans that had aged well. He was a man. He’d never seen that before and in that one moment, it finally hit him. Even though he’d considered himself to be one all this time, he figured out that day, that it’s all the little moments until your dead that defines how you’re gonna be.

Becoming a father will define everything that you leave behind, because it smacked into him right then, that his kid was going to be a piece of him. His kid. He was going to be a father. He was going to be a father to someone. He was going to be a father and he was going to be the best one in the world, he swore it that morning.

He was going to be one who stayed and he was going to…he wasn’t going to die on him and leave him. He was going to play catch with him and teach him how to sew. Or her…they hadn’t known at the time. It clutched at his heart then, made him swell with pride and a love he never knew. He wasn’t just a Snake fresh out of the Tunnel anymore.

He wasn’t so afraid anymore either…even after what had happened. There was a dread and joy, which he couldn’t explain. He couldn’t believe it suddenly…he was going to be a father. He’d really found what he’d always wanted and the one thing was family. The love he’d never had back home.

He really did age.

Although, looking at the grey in his hair at age 32, had that cocky little asshole in him, wanting to cry a little. The insecurity in him that said, _“Tunnel Snakes Rule! Losers- Losers have greys sproutin’ up left and right! Friggin’ Loser!”_ Then again, he had a lot of things to cry about that morning. He had more than his fair share of things to be insecure about too and if he stopped for one minute to think of them, he’d have fallen apart. It was just better to cry about something that seemed small, like his salt and pepper shaded hair, instead of everything else. The tears of frustration and great anger raging inside him, boiling over at the notion of having lost their home.

The tears of shared misery and joy, of bringing a life into a lifeless place. Bitter sweet tears. He’d be better off just thinking of his grey hair, better off thinking about the wrinkles starting to show on his hands, or just better off not thinking at all. It doesn’t change what he feels though and he feels like crying. The tears forming in his eyes that morning, as the thought of what will happen not only to him, but his newborn family, laying peacefully in the making behind him.

The tears of joy, in what was hopelessness were the only thing keeping him alive, with the hope of a better tomorrow…somehow there had to be a better one.

That’s about when she’d started chuckling at him, teasing him with a tired laugh. “You sure like looking at yourself, don’t you? …thought you’d have what you looked like, down by now. Ugly and mean~” she’s playing with him and he’s grinning back, tears fading fast from him. His voice deeper, sadder than it ever used to be, almost not his own voice anymore at all. “Hey, not nearly as ugly or as mean as you are, Sweetheart.” She’d stalked up behind him, wrapped her arms around his waist, and pressed her body against his back with familiar intimacy. Her voice twisting him into knots, wonderful coils of heat. “…oh yeah? Wanna fight?”

He’d put his hands on her arms, the affection of a married man in his motions, easy and without pause.

He was grinning as he’d said it, as they lost themselves in the moment and chose not to think about tomorrow, that day. Though maybe…it was hope that made them both so easy to get lost in themselves. “Yeah…” she’d giggled in his ear and started kissing him. Working him up, with her hands on him, teasing, playful, all woman. The last morning they made love in a bed. The last good thing he can remember that was pure, before they’d left Rivet, when The Brotherhood of Steel met them at the door.

He’d almost stabbed Lyon’s in the throat, when she came begging them for their help. Asking favors, after refusing them the courtesy of help in their most dire of times. Yet…where he would have been all spite and not a second thought, there Angel was…cool headed and ice in her voice saying, “After this, you won’t be hearing our names again…even if we all make it through this. Thanks to your lack of involvement in the Battle for Megaton, The New Enclave has gotten a foothold towards attacking The Citadel. I hope it was worth the lives you wasted.” She’d stood tall, her presence as commanding and battle-hardened, as always. “This new army…The battle we now face, is unlike anything I’ve ever seen and I’ve seen plenty… if what my husband and I saw at Megaton, happens on a much larger scale… this is the war that could finally end humanity.”

She inspired both fear and hope in everyone in that envoy that day, including him. He never quite knew how she did it either, but years of tough choices and gunfights, has that effect on people. You learn to fight or you die like a dog. She hadn’t been wrong either…what they’d seen was the impossible. They saw time stand still.

Helpless to stop it, as they’d stood frozen, The New Enclave flooding in like ants. Defeating 2 days’ worth of careful planning, with a device that should have been something only possible in science fiction. Then again, his wife claimed she’d been to space once and he’d seen the spaceship to prove it, yet he still couldn’t really believe it. It was sheer luck, that that weapon had suddenly stopped working. Luck that would prove to be towards their advantage more than once.

It had malfunctioned long enough for them to evacuate a few straggling settlers at the cost of Lucas, Moira, and countless others. People who’d come to be their friends and neighbors. It wasn’t long enough to stop them from setting off the bomb or long enough for them to say goodbye. To say that they were running out of time, would be a shitty understatement. However…if what Eden had said was taken into consideration, Megaton had only been a test and that test had failed.

There was still time to find The New Enclave. Time to spare towards discovering where the old world science had come from. There was so much time and they’d spent every moment, searching and scouting. They’d found the plans and Vault-Tec, was surely still ruining the lives of the innocent, even 2oo years into the end of civilization as they knew it. Time was suddenly their worst enemy…

 

…So, here they were, left with only wasted time and a terrible ending at the forefront. Their plans in ruins, her blood all over him, as he broke the promise he’d made to their new born son in the mirror that day. Her smile sad and afraid, fading fast, with him screaming at her not to leave him in the middle of all the gunfire. Watching in the distance, as The New Enclave’s Time-Flow Obstructer, fell into a sparking shield of blue black disrepair. His heart sparked wildly with a sour victory.

With their shield down, they’d be pushed back along with the rest of the world. The shield had been overtaken by the dozens of Helibirds left flying and The Brotherhood’s last defenders on the ground. The Enclave would be defeated. They wouldn’t land in the old world and Eden’s dictatorship would end. It was a victory yes, but all he could see was his life about to end.

The bomb about to go off, rendering this fight worthless and sending them god knows when.

Doing god knows what to the Wasteland and the world in the process. Either way, he died with her right then, leaving their son without a family, in a world he had no fuckin’ idea about. The Enclave had already won the moment they’d blown up Megaton, and life as he knew it to be, was about to be over.

That morning…if he knew it was the end, for sure…he would have told her not to come, told her to stay with their son, he’d have hogtied her like a Brahmin Calf…if he’d had more time to love her, to be better to her, to just…just look at her…to hold his baby, his son…it was like any other morning before a fight…

…”Don’t pack the blasting power in so tightly. What do you think you’re doing with those big ol’ hands? Here, let me. You’re bound to blow us up at this rate.” She’d said, as he was working on the mines they’d be planting around New Eden’s base. He’d been uneasy, but everyone was. He’d watched The Lone Wanderer work for months, on formulas countering the New Enclave’s ancient tech. The information they’d stolen from Enclave camps and the scouting expeditions into scattered Vault-Tec ruins, had explained how to twist space time into a weapon. There were shield schematics to counter it, both armor plans and a much larger dome, like the one they’d faced in Megaton.

Using the blueprints and what little data had been recovered, that Poindexter was a sight to see. She designed an EMP based off of what they’d found, which could disable what was keeping the Enclave’s soldiers out of the time-space flow rerouting; or whatever she’d called, what had happened to them at Megaton. He watched her pull sleepless night after sleepless night, working through math he had no idea even existed, that was barely even tested.

Reminded that Megaton, had been the final test and even then, the Time-Flux Field hadn’t been able to hold them for long.

The New Enclave was playing with fire and this time the world might not just burn…they could rip apart the fabric of existence and truly bring a whole new meaning to “The End of The World”.

He was there to deliver his son, in a military base with those equations all over the walls. Each night a laboring task of testing ideas and gathering supplies. Number after number and he’d watched her work herself half to death over each one. The day his son was born, was a Sunday in August, a sight that scared the hell out of him, and had him in awe all at once. It was the only thing that had finally made his wife stop working.

Labor and childbirth. It was messy, it was bloody, and in the end as he caught his boy, after obeying his wife’s pained, barking orders, it was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. He’d never be able to look at anything the same way again and his wife…the mother of his child. She’d be such a good mother. She’d always been too good to stand and too damn bossy.

She’d be one hell of a mother.

He’d never been more thankful for the woman’s know-it-all streak. It made him feel like she knew better about what she was doing, than either of them probably did; about having a family and the new science alike. She was always acting like she knew better. She usually did too. Except…that morning.

…He’d shuffled out of the way, barking at the woman beside him, irritated as he let her in front of the steel table before them. Wasteland sun scorching on their backs, their tempers high in the open air. “You- **I’m** gonna blow us up? …you should be back where you belong- not playing the war hero again. Christ’s sakes, Angie…go. Home. No one **needs** you around and I don’t need you to tell me, how to do everything. Not right now! It’s the last damn thing I’m willing to listen to!” She glared at him, brushing him off, bickering back and clearly on edge as well. “Quit your bitching and don’t you yell at me, Deloria! …There’s enough yelling without you chiming in too.” He scoffed, crossing his arms across his chest with a glance at her belly, seeing where she was still carrying a little extra weight.

Thinking of their son.

He thought it was damn near adorable, but he was all too eager to pick on her and talk some sense into her. “-you don’t get to tell me what to do, when you shouldn’t even be here! You **should** be at camp- with Jamie. You should just leave today to me… _Deloria,_ **_Deloria_**!…I’ll give you a “Deloria”, tch…keep it up…I swear…” her eyes on her task and her voice wry, her arm brushing against his as she worked. “You already did give me one…and quit standing so close, you’re in my space, thought you hated cramped spaces. –and who died and made you so wise? Like hell I’m just going to leave this to you…you can barely make a land mine without killing us all…” His chin digging into her shoulder and his breath in her ear, husky and annoyed with her. “Why the fuck can’t you just let me wear the pants for once?” He feels her shoulders tense up, his hands now on either side of the table, caging her there, his heart pattering at how small she still is.

Small woman, big personality, and one hell of a Smart Mouth. “-we both wear the pants and it’s what in yours, that’s made it too damn hard to fit into mine again! I’m here and I’m not leaving you! Deal with it, Butch!” Something in him snaps and he’s angry as hell, slamming his hands on the table, and making her jump, yelling at the back of her head, taking a step away. “ARE YOU REALLY THIS DUMB?!” The tension breaking finally, as she placed the unfinished mine down and turned to face him, watching with wild eyes, as he unraveled. Her fists bawled at her sides and her eyes cold as a cobra’s, staring him down. He’s huffing like he can’t breath and he really can’t.

The mother of his child’s about to just waltz into battle, like the world wasn’t about to explode. He couldn’t take it anymore, he just couldn’t. He couldn’t pretend that he was fine with it, because he sure as hell wasn’t. It wasn’t in him, to ignore the death ahead…and that was the scariest thing of all. There was a time, when she’d be the one telling him to stay home and he’d be the one not giving a damn…the thought has him reeling.

Her voice got cold, in that livid “I’m going to cut you with your own knife” kind of tone, he’d know anywhere. “You better watch what you say next to me-“and with a lack of patience, he stands tall and yells at her, because he loves her enough to be out of jokes. “-WHY? Because it might be the last thing I ever say to you?!” he regrets it a little, when her face tries to crack and his eyes start tearing up, as the rest of the camp watches them, losing morale. He’s being harsher than he needs to be, but he just…wishes she would listen. She’s the best thing that he ever got to keep and he…he’s the one person around who can make her shrink down, make her small like he did that morning.

Her voice cracks, only ever being vulnerable like that with him. That little tremor is both an honor on his part and the responsibility not to abuse it. “Don’t you do this to me! Not right now!” He’s shaking with at least 10 different emotions and she’s just so small, so fragile…so irritating. His voice has got a tremor in it, but he’s done playing like today isn’t going to be the hardest one they’ve ever seen. “Do what? What, Evangeline? Make jokes like you?! Just pretend everything’s fuckin’ golden?  Or how about I face the facts and look at the fuckin’ gun barrel that’s pointing right at us? How about I do that for once?!” her hands run through her hair in a nervous rush and he can’t help it, he just has to touch her.

So her face is in his hands and he’s crying angry tears, because he just doesn’t want to lose her. “Fuckin’ notice the gun that’s pointing right at you and don’t act like it’s not real!!” she’s shaking her head, refusing to cry and trying to block him out. Her hands fall over his and he can’t be strong for her, even though she’s wanting him to. He’s afraid and she is too. He can’t fake it like he’s not.

Her voice cracks and her anger is without ceasing. “You think I don’t know that? Really? You think I’m not seeing what could happen out there today? -There’s more than just you and me, Grease-For-Brains!” He’s shaking his head, his palms gentle with her face, his eyebrows knit together and he swallows like he’s chewing sand. His thumbs are on her cheekbones comforting both himself and the woman he’s arguing with, as he starts getting softer on her. “Not to me there’s not…unless you’re counting our boy, who you’re willing to leave behind so fuckin’ easily-“She shoves him away, and he staggers back, hurt. The woman’s always got his heart in her hands and if she wanted to, she could crush it any time she wanted. She’s shoving at his armor clad chest again, only he’s ready and just let’s her yell at him, because they both need it. “Go to hell! Y-you…GOD DAMNIT, DELORIA! You make me so angry! You make me so…CRAZY ENOUGH TO JUST- AHG!”

He’s bracing himself for her shoves, his hands at his sides, because he’d never lay a hand on her. Even if she decked him, he knows he’d probably just let her do it, because he probably did something to deserve it anyway…but he’ll yell just as loudly as her though. “And you NEVER fuckin’ wanna listen to me- it’s like you don’t care about my feelings or what I think at all! You think you’ve got it **all** figured out, but the truth is you don’t! YOU DON’T KNOW WHAT YOU’RE DOING, DO YOU?!” She’s crying and they’re a spectacle to witness, but it might just be the pregnancy hormones lingering in her along with the false optimism. That lingering hope, that’s been dangling by a thread for months as the approaching siege has gotten closer.

The fear of dismantling the promises they’d made to themselves and to each other, terror that’s been eating away at them forever, even before their son was born. “I DO CARE, YOU LEATHERY JACKASS! You think I want to leave you or him alone for even a minute?! You think I don’t listen?! You’re the only one I listen to! I’M NOT ABANDOING YOU HERE!” He goes to open his mouth again. “I-“only to pause and with a growl, he shuts his big mouth and grabs her wrists firmly, and trying to calm down his rushing anger, while still being himself, he’s letting his heart show on his sleeve. “…-you don’t need to be here-“

She’s always been the cool leveled headed one in most things. However, being married to a guy like him and being with each other for so long, is enough to make you comfortable enough to throw a fit. He’s thrown plenty more than her and they’ve always worked it out somehow. That solid trust they have to scream and yell at each other without mercy, though? That’s the extent of trust they have in knowing, that neither of them will ever be angry enough to leave and there’s a kind of peace for him in that.

It’s the lack of a choice in losing one another, that’s always been the root of their insecurities. They could die any day…it’s just never felt this possible before and they both know it. She interrupts him, her fingers clutching at his heavy leather chest piece, desperate. “-And these men need a leader, a Lone Wanderer…they need me-” and as he stares her down, his words suck all of the anger out of them both. His voice is gentle, full of love, devotion, affection, and raw weakness.  “-I need you.”

Then, like in a time long gone, they are two children in a Vault-Tec corridor in a standoff. They stand there, worked up without knowing why they’re even arguing to begin with. He’s the one who swallows his pride and says what’s been on his mind too long. It’s been in his brain since he held his wife and his son in each of his arms. “…Jamie needs you.” She breathes out a shaking sigh, her hands shaking on his chest, as she blinks the tears from her eyelashes.

He’s looking down at her, feeling the weight of where she’s standing like a ton of bricks. Lost in her eyes and caught up in the moment, nothing else breaking through to them. When did he become the strong one? He’s thinking that to himself and it rattles him. He never noticed that he’d been holding her together until then.

It shakes him and fills his heart with warmth. This woman trusts him and even though she’s strong enough to stand on her own…he’s afraid for her life that morning. He’s pulling her into an embrace filled with unspoken secrets. Pulling her in tight so she can’t see him cry and whispering into her hair low enough, to where the nosy Brotherhood Initiates can’t hear him speak. “I know you always wanna be in charge, Angie, but don’t act like there’s nothing to lose…don’t act like you don’t know I’m right…don’t make me say it on my own ok? I’m **scared** …I’m not scared for me…I’m worrying out of my mind over losing **you** …”

He feels her fall against him and like when they were young, he holds her up as she starts to sob. She’s hidden away from the rest of the world inside his arms, letting herself feel the brunt of her feelings for once. “…when the hell did you get so smart…you think I’m not scared? I’m terrified…but I’m not leaving you here to fight alone- I’m afraid of losing you too…You’re stuck with me!” She shaking and he’s rocking her, facing her stubborn resolve with affection. “-well, you’re stuck with me too, Pipsqueak…even if you’re being **real** hard to reason with.” She’s sniffling and cursing loudly, laughing suddenly. “Damn hormones! It’s all your fault you big Butthead! –asking me to just leave you here…” He starts laughing too, afraid, but the tension’s gone at least. He knows then in that moment, that she’s going with him one way or the other.

She’s going even if she shouldn’t. She’s going in guns blazing, with his old jacket on her frame. She’s going to be The Lone Wanderer and even if he knows that the men they are about to rush into war with, need her too...he wants to be selfish. He wants to lock her up in a nice house of their own and raise his son with her. He wants to give her flowers and give his son a little brother or sister, while he cooks breakfast and Angie’s teaching James how to shoot.

He wants more time than he’s got.

He’s just not selfless enough to let it drop though and so he’s complaining, even though he knows what’s going to happen. “Why the hell did I fall in love with such a…stupid-little goody-goody like you?” She’s leaning away out of his arms then and when he looks down at her, he knows he’s lost. She’s leaning up and kissing him like it’s their last goodbye, stealing his worries and his thoughts. It’s sweet and un-shy, all hands and hearts on the warfront, tender with emotion where love just doesn’t belong. She pulls away, without a smile, dread in her eyes, tears drying up. “Because…you just happened to have a good eye, didn’t you?”

He snorts like an idiot and when she starts giggling, he knows damn well she said it on purpose. He’s growling at her, still chuckling, holding her there in his arms. “Sure, sure- you think you’re funny doncha, Shrimp? Not a care in the world today.” She kicks him in his shin lightly, enough to let him know she did it, but not enough to make him really hurt. She sniffles, huffing at him and regains her composure as best as she can. “-Hey, I learned from the best didn’t I? …and I still have you to care for don’t I? …Pretty Boy…” He gives her a squeeze, giving into her humor. “Not with this face, I’m not…”

She’s whispering it into his ear again, her humor evaporated. “…let me have this…please…” He can hear it then in her voice. She’s unsure. She really doesn’t know what she’s doing…but he’s still going to follow her anyway, because it’s all he’s ever known how to do. He takes a breath and nods, giving up, not thinking about anything other than how sweet she smells.

She smells like home. He grunts it out, gruff, but with great kindness. “Alright…yeah. I did teach ya to laugh didn’t I? …even on shit days like this…” She laughs and it sounds watery. “Mhm…even on shit days like this…” He’s looking out over the horizon and tucking the top of her head under his chin again, holding on like he won’t ever let her go. He can’t help it, saying it…what they’ve always clung to, that one morning. “…well, at least I’ still got you…don’t I, Evangeline?”

And before she went to lead the men into the war of their lives, he’ll never forget what she said. “…Tunnel Snakes stick together…right, Butch?”

 

…there was so much blood.

So much of her blood as it covered his lap and his hands. His chest ran cold and his world fell apart. Crying like a baby, the love of his life dying in his arms…shot through the chest, right as she’d finally made it to where the bomb was hidden. That morning wasn’t enough to prepare him, the years before hadn’t, the thoughts and the fear and the reality hadn’t- nothing could ever make him ready to be without her. His life was flashing before his eyes.

His voice was a collection of broken sobs, ugly sniffles, and wild words. “DON’T YOU DO THIS TO ME, BABY! Baby Doll-D-D-Oh fuck- DON’T YOU LEAVE ME! Don’t-FUCK!” Rocking her back and forth, her hand feels cold on his face. It was all for nothing. Everything they’d done…every sleepless night and every careful maneuver. The ground shook, the sound deafening as another Helibird went down in the distance, but he couldn’t look away from her.

He couldn’t take his eyes off of hers. They’d always been blue and bright, pretty and full of life. She was a fighter and a thinker. She was dying, before him…and he was angry at her for it. He was yelling at her then, while she was just…just smiling up at him. “WHY?! Why didn’t you-fuck…FUCK- I said to stay…I told you-I TOLD YOU! WHY DIDN’T YOU LISTEN?!”

He can’t take it, it hurts more than dying himself. Her voice feels like that Deathclaw’s coming back again for his heart this go around. “…s-shh…i…it’s going to…-to be ok, Butch…” she’s lying to him. Nothing is ok, the bodies piling up around them would have been proof enough, without their damn birds falling from the sky. He’s shaking his head, going numb, denying the truth and accepting what she’s saying. “…Y-yeah…yeah sure- sure it is! I just…just gotta…gotta find you a Stim…there’s- there’s gotta be a Stim- GODDAMNIT! Where IS IT?!”

His hand starts searching through her ammo belt, even though he saw he use her last Stimpack a while ago. He’s blinded by grief and fear, adrenaline pumping and his heart crushing itself. Her voice freezes him in his tracks. “…this…this is where…I die, Butch…” His voice hitched up, pitchy and shattered. “-No it’s not…” She was still smiling, as she crushed his heart into a million pieces with three simple words. “…yes it is…”

Becoming a man…it was in every moment of everyday. Growing up, is every single second before you have to face what’s at the end. Death waits for no man…and time was the last thing they had on their side. He’s saying it with a twisted up smile, crazed with horror. “…but…but you can’t…Tunnel Snakes for life…’n you’re a Snake, aren’t ya? …y-you gotta stay awake Angel, -Stay with me…” she’s laughing then, coughing up blood.

His voice is silence among the blood and bullets. “-no, no, no, no, no- NO! …no…” he’s crying and he doesn’t care who sees him. He’s thinking about shooting himself before the bomb goes off, just so he can choose how he dies, when she says something to him that has him pausing. “…there’s hope Butch… armor…I made you…armor…ha…ha-ha…” He’s thinking really hard over her words, harder than about anything he’s ever thought about. He’s straining to hear her clearly, brushing her hair back, leaning close and speaking to her, like his voice is going to be the thing that finally makes her cross over, instead of the bullet embedded in her chest. “…what’re you sayin’, huh? Sweetheart, what armor?”

She’s laughing again and still smiling, her lips brushing against his ear, as he holds her tiny frame in his arms. Her voice is delirious, but something about it has never been clearer. “…armor s-so good…it’ll…it’ll stand…” she’s turning her head and coughing up blood again, his attention stuck on her face, as she finishes with a toothy grin. “…it will stand against the test of time…”

She’s losing her mind and he can’t bear it. He whines at her, lost without her. “-Nooo, come on Angel- get it together, keep it together…-someone’s gonna see us! Someone…SOMEONE! GET THE FUCK OVER HERE!!” He’s searching around when he feels her hand weakening on his face. Her eyes dimming, as he hears the bomb’s final numbers start to tick down. Her words etching themselves in his soul, with her last bit of strength slipping off his cheek, “…keep this from happening and do it…again…when you see me… Butchie… treat me like you…you wanted to…back then…God, I love you…”

Life is the fleeting moments in-between the things you think matter, but actually aren’t worth anything. Living is regrets and lost chances that you’ll never get back. Growing up is letting go of childish things and manning up to hard times. Being a man, isn’t one moment…it’s all of them. And he hated that he didn’t do it as well as he should have…life, love, and the whole struggle for happiness deal.

He wished…fuck he would give anything…if he could just…fuck it…if he could just…

 -His eyes flicker to the date the bomb was set to, expecting to see 200 years ago as their destination, only to get the shock of his life. He feels her fingers pushing something into his skin at his temple lightly, before they fall away. Chaos echoes around them, as they sit there, untouched by it and simply able to ignore it, wrapped around each other. Her last words breathed out in a rush, as the whirring of energy mere feet beside them comes to life while hers fades away.

 It all feels and sounds, like he’s miles away from it all, and all he can hear clearly, are her final words.

“…erase…your…regrets…”

Then there was nothing, but the sound of a great explosion, the feeling of being swept away somewhere at a harsh velocity, and blackness before his eyes… and all that was left for him…

…was time.


	2. The Light At The End Of The Tunnel

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ((So, just wanted to let you guys know, that I'll be editing and fixing/posting chapters as I go along. In other words, if a chapter gets reposted, there's probably a lot of grammar fixes and improvements to the chapter, but it's mostly going to be the same chapter. I hope you guys enjoy!))
> 
> DISCLAIMER: I don't own anything, except Evangeline's Personality, but not much else, haha.

**A/N Night Terrors of 1927 - Always Take You Back, is a song I feel goes really well with this.**

Blank Slate.

That’s all he had in his head, once he was aware of himself. Then slowly, in that strange blackened and silent place, it all came rushing back. Dust, blood, and Time-Flux grenades rewinding soldiers on the battlefield. Her dying…oh god she was dying. She’s telling him that she’s going to die and she’s not lying…he’s running up behind her, seeing her screwing around with the bomb, watching her back…he really was useless after all.

He’s seeing her hair in the sunlight, her smiling too big, her roaring out cry, as she blows away the guards standing watch around the base. She makes it to the bomb and his heart stops, when an explosion of red blooms on her chest. He’s running to her like a starving man towards a slab of meat, everything crashing down around them. He skids to a stop on his knees and he’s holding her in his arms. He sees flashes of her face in his bed, in their house, holding their child, in the vault, at her school desk, at the bar.

Then it’s not just her face…its all of them. His Mother, Paul and Wally, Christine and Suzie. His 10th birthday, learning cursive, learning how to curse, damn- he didn’t mean to knock her in the nose that time or to give her that nosebleed. He’s a teenager, then he’s a man. He’s a child and then he thinks he’s full grown, but he doesn’t have the whole story- he really didn’t at 19.

The most important parts of his life and the oddest memories, are now sticking out to him like an old movie. It was all in reverse too, topsy-turvy, nauseating. His heart feels like it’s ready to burst, when suddenly, he’s just walking behind her, staring at her ass, as she stops with the world falling down in front of her. She turns and kisses him hard, for luck. He can’t believe she’s alive…and she’s never looked prettier to him.

Rewind to before then.

Kissing her the morning before the war, delivering his son, sneaking into Enclave tents, it started out like that, the twisting turning tunnel around him. It was everything and nothing he’d ever felt before. He’s seeing himself sneaking around like he’s not even in his own skin anymore. He was damn good at being quiet when he wanted to be. Angie always teased him for it; fuck knows he could be louder than a pack of wild mongrels baying in the night if he wanted to be.

He used Stealth-Boys better than anyone in their war party. His Toothpick was quick, slick, and lethal when no saw it coming. He watched himself giving Enclave guards a second smile, but he’d been doing it for too long to feel guilty over it, at least not in the moment. After what they’d done to his family, his wife and his town, he took a sickening pleasure in killing, which actually kind of scared him. It was horrifying to see himself like that, watching from the sidelines so abruptly.

As he looked on, from his resting place in the vortex, he wondered where his feet began or why he couldn’t feel his fingertips…what happened to the kid who just wanted to be something more, than the same as everyone had had for 200 years. Where did that guy who’d just needed more legroom go? The Snake fresh out of the tunnel. The most badass gang leader that side of the Wasteland. Somewhere along the way, after he’d been living the dream for so long…the dreamer inside him had died and he hated it, when he understood, that he’d gotten old and sour.

Then suddenly, from over his shoulder, in this sea of emotion and garbled memory, he’s hearing his wife yelling from inside the war tent.

She’s breastfeeding…and it does something meaningful to him. Pride, affection, and more afraid than he’s ever been, but he’d do anything to protect them, as the emotion builds within his chest. Anything. Life is more precious than he could have ever known. It’s fragile…soft like those two precious people in front of him.

His child was born in a radstorm on a Sunday in August. He took one look at the bloody, little ball of life in his arms, a little boy…he wasn’t breathing. His wife barked at him to smack him on the ass and terrified, he did what she told him to, word for word. A tiny little choke, a cough, and then…the first time he heard his baby cry. He didn’t care who’d died before then or what he’d lost, or even where they’d be the next day, because when he heard that breathtaking sound…it was all worth it.

The child stole his heart.

My God his boy…he was beautiful like his mother and had a real good set of lungs on him, just like his Daddy. The tarps on their tent were threatening to let the radiation in, but somehow they stayed and it wasn’t just the two of them anymore. It was the three of them and that number had never been so moving to him. 3 heartbeats in the tent, in the middle of the storm, his wife glowing, telling him to cut the cord. The moment he became a father, is the moment when there was one other person, who he’d give his every breath, bone, and all of his heart to protect.

He’s holding his newborn son in that tent and then, she’s yelling at him for hot towels, saying he’s the only one she’ll let near her, telling him she’s about to go into labor. She’s sitting under lantern light in the darkness, working out the math for a Time-Obstructer EMP, her eyes getting bags to them, her belly ready to pop. His hand reaches out to stop hers from writing one more thing. He’s telling her to stop and to lie down with him for a minute.

Rewind even farther.

Then he sees Lyon’s standing at their front door, asking for their help in front of Rivet. He sees himself so angry that he wanted to give her a second smile too, after abandoning them all to die, murderous. His wife’s level head and calculating thinking, endearing and eerie. She had to talk him into letting The Brotherhood get involved. She had to be his calm, because seeing himself from afar…damn, he looked scary with all that muscle on him.

Even though he was angrier at them than ever, Butch wasn’t as dumb as he used to be. Sometimes you have to let your head rule over your heart and he’d always had more heart than brains…she was his balance though. He could make her feel more than anyone else and she’d always forced him to think about what he was doing. They were each other’s push and pull, their better halves which made an unstoppable whole.

Oh, but when neither of them were stressing about all the hard things, they fell into each other like silk and leather.

The last time they’d made love in a bed, both comforted him and aroused him. Her soft skin, her bedroom eyes, her beautiful breasts and the hint of what their love had formed inside her. The moment was surreal. He’d seen pictures in old books, burnt up paintings, and a rare few preserved ones, and he could say those things, sculptures and music, all of it…she would have been all of it to him. Her body never quit and her love was something he could lose himself in.

Then Maggie’s sitting with them at the Rudder, crying over Billy. They’re saying their goodbyes before he gets himself drunk and Angel trades off the last few things they’d saved from their home. The taste of sand in his mouth, blistering heat and his aching feet, carrying his wife on his back, Maggie dragging her boots beside them. The long and sad way to Rivet, the trip quiet and solemn, as they walked further and further away from Megaton’s rubble. Staring at the smoldering wreckage, he’s gritting his teeth, ready to cry and ready to kill someone.

It’s touch and go as he leads the charge out of the tunnel, being the hero for once. His wife’s gripping his hand and she’s screaming mad, while he’s squeezing her hand to keep himself sane. He’s back on the roof again in town, seeing Lucas getting taken down by some random fucker in Power Armor. Hearing the voice of President Eden for the first time. He’s hearing the speech that leads to the destruction of everything they’d worked so hard for.

He’s seeing his wife looking like someone dangerous, someone he’s not sure that he’d ever met before. It’s all going to hell, the planning and the hard work, sweating through his tank-top and wasting his breath, trying to get them all to run, useless. He’s feeling the slight worry of losing their town again, which feels more like a laser of raw agony shooting through his ribcage. It’s in the heat of the Wasteland sun, before they’d placed the dome onto the walls, that he’s had enough. He’s hammering away with a sledgehammer in his grasp, at the lower walls, digging the tunnel that would save their lives.

Him coming up with the escape tunnel and Lucas agreeing to it, wasn’t ever a talk they’d had…it was him and that hammer, him pounding away and few good men joining him. Him finding common ground with his wife when she’d told him that having a way out, wasn’t the worst idea. She listened to him for once. If only she’d have listened to him more.

2 days of careful planning, as he put nails into wooden barricades, and fought with his wife over just getting while the getting was good. Having the same argument over and over. ‘ _What good’s defending a town if no one’s alive to live in it? You Ange’, you are the only reason I’m standing here! You always have to save everyone and we can all be safe, if we just make some sacrifices! This do-gooder crap is for the birds anyway!’_ He was angry over what she was turning him into. Then he was thankful. He may not have been the good guy, but right then…he wasn’t the worst. The truth was even if she wasn’t there…those people weren’t so bad.

 He was the deputy of Megaton, the husband of the Lone Wanderer, and the guy everyone liked drinking with after work. He was hopeful, then sad, then tender hearted and murderous. He was loyal to them too, just as much as they were to him. The Wasteland seemed to have stolen his innocence when he wasn’t looking, but what it gave him in return, was so much better. What it took from him was so much worse than anything he’d ever lost. He’d never knew what it felt like to lose something so good.

It was the most current events of his life at first and then…it’s going farther back that starts to make his skin itch, wherever he’s standing in.

He’s laughing with her over her father’s grave, giving her his shoulder. The sun’s setting and he’s passing her a bottle of Rum. She’s 30 and he’s just one year older…but she’s been out here longer than him and it shows. _‘Been out of the vault and now you think you’re a big shot, huh?’_ She’s laughing, leaning her head on him, and being a Smart Mouth with lips he wants to kiss, so delicate and pretty. _‘No…just a better shot than you.’_ He’s tripping over memories, which feel like they are both running together and rolling backwards into a deep dark pit.

He’s not even sure where he’s standing anymore, other than it’s at the center of it all, whether he’s got legs to even stand on at all- he can’t tell up from down here.

He’s asking her to marry him in their kitchen and she’s saying they were married a long time ago. He’d never thought she’d been more right. He’d had a goofy smile, which he’d felt embarrassed for having until she’d pressed her mouth against it, chasing his doubt away. He’s standing in Craterside Supply, talking about ring sizes with Moira.

He’s fantasizing about weddings and forevers in a world where there’s no such thing. _‘Nah…no way she’d like that one…how about you just give me the silver one instead…I don’t know- just put the damn thing on a…on a chain or something! –fuck never mind…geez, quit your laughing Barry! Don’t think I don’t see you laughing!’_ Took him about 2 years just to learn that guard’s name. It took him a few years for just about every lesson he’d had to learn. How to love, how to forgive, how to watch his mouth around people. How to grieve in his own way.

Dogmeat’s at his feet and he’s standing over him. The pile of fur and bones passed away overnight…old age finally got him. He was on his knees, a pile of blank stares and anguish, before Angel came up and put her hand on his shoulder. He’d never felt so let down before about losing something in his life…at least at the time. He loved that dog…her dog…he became his dog too. _‘You should be grateful, Deloria. …he really seems to like you. Don’t why!’_ She said that to him at the bar once…

…but no that’s too far back.

When he thinks that split second thought, that it’s too far back for him to go, he’s seeing himself and that mutt playing fetch. So sweet a memory that it’s painful…it’s starting to get really painful. That Dog would wake him up in the morning, with bad breath and sloppy kisses that he didn’t know he’d miss. He was his best friend with four legs and he’d died saving his life in a way, even if it wasn’t how you’d think…but not yet? It’s a memory that’s already happened and is happening at the same instant.

That mutt made him smile and he wouldn’t drink so much, when he’d come waddling along, wanting him to throw his bone. He really did save his life more than once out scaving. He made him less lonely when Blackwell left without him. He remembered when throwing that bone was just a way to keep him from being bored, which had made Dogmeat have a special place in his heart after a while.

A place that went empty when he was gone.

He’s there just killing time, waiting for Blondie to come home, just outside of Megaton’s walls. He’s feeling everything all at once too, completely aware of when it’s all going to end. It’s in reverse and sideways and the most bizarre, out of this world, kind of feeling. He never knew what it would be like to die, but he’s heard people talk about “having their whole lives flash before their eyes”. He doesn’t know where it all ends and where it all begins …it’s enough to almost have his head wanting to tear apart.

It hurts to remember, it hurts him down to his atoms it feels like and the pain extends out where his skin should be.

The joy of hitting something right for the first time, after aiming down the sights of the gun she’d gave him. The boredom of waiting for her to come home, the loneliness of just to wanting to have someone to talk to. The excitement of a fresh day and a brand new world. ..and the sorrow of knowing that it had all come to an end. It’s all rushing into and through him, like he’s the wire and the light, color, and scenes all around him, is the electricity frying him alive.

Everything he’s ever done or felt, pouring across his memories like a rush of indescribable, painful energy. It’s the most intense trip he’s ever experienced and…and then he’s seeing himself, somewhere far from their porch, at their home in Megaton.

He’s on Jet, at the bar, too many drinks and too little caps. She’s just walked in…it’s before she dragged him up to The Weatherly and nursed his hangover. He’s seeing her for the first time and he’s thankful, shocked in the moment and a little proud of her…he wants to follow her around a little. He wants her to look at him. While outside of the memory itself, he’s aching to touch her- to reach his fingers out to her, just to check to see if she’s really alive.

To hold her, to kiss her, touch her, and adore her- he’d do anything for her. He’d do it all for her, because she’d did everything for him, when he wouldn’t have given her kindness a 2nd thought. _‘…because you’ve always been a goody two-shoes, so when I need help, it’s what you’re gonna do, right?’_ She forgave him for all the years of him tearing her down. Forgave him for shoving her into walls, calling her names and stealing her rations. She forgave him for whacking her in the nose when they were kids.

He’d never felt more guilty, for taking his problems out on her…because she’d been dealing with everyone’s problems ever since she was born, hadn’t she? The world just pushed itself onto her and never let up. Even the people who loved her, had used her without a second thought…him included. She just wouldn’t let the world make its own mistakes. She was always trying to fix it…always trying to fix him.

And she never gave up on him…did she?

His heart swells with regret and affection, for the girl, who’d one day be his wife. She’d be his lifeline and his reason, his peace and the most irritating voice in his head. Much later he’d be hers too, her joy and her own personal pain in the ass. He regretted so many things and one of them, was acting like he didn’t care about her…when he did. He’d always cared, even back in the vault.

Rewinding again, with that feeling of regret in his heart, he’s now walking to Rivet City for the first time.

He’s angry, hot, and yet he’s just too happy to have finally gotten out of 101. He’s excited about what he could do out here. He’s afraid of the endless looking ceiling above him, but that ugly ghoul over in Megaton, was pretty sure he wouldn’t float up into it. He’s thinking that if Daddy’s Little Angel can hack it out here, then so can he right? He’s thinking of her a lot as he’s walking to Rivet.

He’s watching the younger, more naïve version of himself from behind the scenes, remembering his thoughts, his feelings all at once, along with what he’s feeling, while placed out of that vivid memory. It’s getting to be too much for him, as he’s starting to wish it would stop, because he’s not sure how much more of the stretching and ripping he can take. He’s experiencing everything all over again, from his envy towards the girl he grew up hating, wanting, and longing for, to the rubbing of his leather into his skin as it sticks to it. His jacket’s making him overheat with the lining still inside, cooking him alive in the desert he’s trudging through.

He looks so damn happy and stupid excited, that it curls his lip.

He was thinking about how she just came in and took the vault by storm. How she saved them all and then left without a goodbye. He’d thought it was easy as pie, just because she’d did it without dying. He was a smartass little punk is what he was. He’s wanting to clutch at his chest and his head, because it’s starting to pound like it’s gonna explode, but he’s not even sure he’s got hands anymore.

All of a sudden he’s watching her save 101 all over again.

He’s in 101 with the rest of the rebels, basically sitting on his hands. He’s looking at her, oddly happy to see her face again and watching her bark orders like she’s the queen of 101, feeling jealous and impressed. She looks so much different to him and he’s shuffling on his feet, unsure about how he’s feeling. The feeling agitates him, because she looks so…she’s walking in through the Vault door, looking dirty, armed, and walking with a weird monster at her feet. She looks like a warrior, a soldier, and nothing like the little Nerd he knew growing up.

She looks like his wife, his strength, and the mother of his kid.

He’s meeting her for the first time, after she’d left them with her and her father’s mess. Her familiar face and with an expression he’s never seen her have before, making him grin. _‘Well! Look who’s just come waltzing back into the vault!’_ He’s thinking how dumb he was…she’d seen more death than he could ever imagine back then. It was no wonder she’d looked so happy to see…so jaded. An idealist is what he was and she sure as hell wasn’t by the end of their lives, but she knew what it took to fight for what you believed in. There was a time when he’d of fought for Megaton, like he’d fought for his freedom in the Vault Rebellion.

All heart, too much balls, and just…he was too stupid to care enough to be careful and not to do something stupid.

He messed up big time, by not giving up to fight another day…he lost Paul that way and Megaton too…

…But he’d give everything to have that life with her again …that life of pain, bullets, and bittersweet happiness- fighting too much to hang on to the things, that he’d cared too much not to fight for. That pretty face in the morning and his heart chewing itself up over, maybe never waking up to it again one day. …and he wouldn’t change it…not all of it anyway. The fights over him drinking too much, and that time she slapped him, when he said her father picked his legacy bullshit over her happiness. The mornings she’d avoid him, only to kiss him hard and making him hurt even more, as she’d walk out the door. The tears or the nights on the couch or the days with their feet dangling off their porch…

He’d do it all again. He’d do it again, screw ups and all, because it was when he was on his knees, begging her to take him back, which gave him purpose. It was the way she’d hold him close, warm and forgiving, every single time that made it worth it. She made the Wasteland paradise and she’d made him a better man. That’s something he’d never regret…it was the little moments like those.

It was the cold nights outside without anyone else around for miles, with her caught up in his arms. It was how she laughed huskily, how much he loved it when she’d leave her junk around the house, and the messages she’d leave him in the steam on their foggy bathroom mirror. The way she pursed her lips while thinking, or how it felt to just sit in the quiet of a campsite with her. Those feelings that had him laughing, crying, and boiling over with both rage and pleasure- That was everything that was bombarding him in that rapid, too colorful, infinite and shifting place, where the blank slate once was. He couldn’t see anything other than her suddenly, and in a sea of his own regrets, she was the artwork on his empty canvas.

She was the stitching on the back of his jacket, the tunnel for his snake to curl up nice and warm in. The doodles he’d sketch into the corners of her notes, she was every line. She was the color, even when they both started getting grey. She pissed him off and made it alright. His lifetime was more than full of happy, sappy moments…

It was a life full of all the things he’d ran away from. A life of missed chances. A lifetime’s worth of memories and in that place, he was reminded of all the times he’d fought for more of it. He loved the rush of running from ferals, the burn of his favorite scotch, and making her mad. He craved something more than the same walls all his life and boy, did he get it.

He’d never wanted to be a slave to someone else’s wishes and he… he was free up there alright. The flights across the Wasteland in Angie’s Helibird and the motorcycle he’d gotten working, that’s not something he’d have ever had, locked away in the vault. Sewing his name into pillows and patching up the bullet holes in everything they’d ever worn. Now that’s what he called “working on his needle point” alright. The fast life, the hard life, the lifetime he wouldn’t ever regret living with her.

 He loved his life more than he stopped to think not to.

Then just as quickly as the joy was there… Paul’s dying on their teacher’s desk and his head’s splitting open again. He’s too young to get himself together, so all he can do is stare. No real Eulogy, till Wally tells him to shove.  Wally’s bailing on him, joining the enemy and Paul’s dead now. He’s watching Paul burn away, along with Wally’s leather…but fuck him- He doesn’t need him!

He’s crying and no one’s around to see it, so who cares anyway- he can cry if he wants to. No one to see him for the coward he was, but his friend. His best friend, who’s looking at him with dead eyes, just another corpse on the table then. Paul really was his only friend in the end…his brother. _‘Nah, come on, Man! We gotta go! Come on! I ain’t leaving you. That’s it! Here, take my shoulder. Let’s get the hell outa here, huh?’_ Paul’s smiling, shaking and afraid, as he’s leaning on his shoulder, safe for the moment when they make it back.

He’s bleeding out and telling him to pass the bourbon, his fear drying up…almost like Paul had accepted that he wasn’t going to make it. His last words…it’s always a man’s final words that seem to cling to his memory like moss on a Mirelurk. The last conversation they’d had, before Butch ran off to his cot and Paull died in the night, alone. _‘Hey man, Tunnel Snakes still rule, Wally’s just pissed right now…don’t forget- birth to earth, womb to tomb! Wait till we get out, we’ll rule out there together too! This isn’t your fault…radroaches are everywhere. Yeah…s’not that bad, Butch, I’m sure it’ll heal by next week. Just… take care of yourself better alright? D-don’t wanna end up like me…radroach chow. Heh.’_  He’s up in his cot at night, telling himself to be a man…trying not to cry and just failing at it.

Paul dies the next night and Wally leaves him cold, while he can stop looking into the furnace.

Wally goes and incinerates his jacket with Paul’s body, burning a piece of his heart along with it. What’s he gonna be now without his boys? Who’s gonna be in his gang? When did things get so messed up? When did he?

His childhood’s over, it really is right then and there. He's taking orders from Amata now, because at least she’s willing to let him leave. He can take anyone who tries to come his way, because he’s the best there ever was. Tunnel Snakes Rule! Hell, yeah! Fuck you, Overseer- fuck everything.

No one needs to know how he really feels anyway under that…

It all comes rushing back. Wally’s telling him he should just give up and die down here like the rest of them. Telling him how to live his life, like they’ve lived it for 200 years. Paul’s shaking beside him, just as much as his heart is racing, and he’s afraid of killing someone for real, but he’s getting out of here damn it. He can make it out there, because whatever’s out there has got to be better, than a life of the same thing down here.

His Mother’s crying on the couch and he’s crying too. _‘So what, Ma’? You jus’-you’re just gonna kick me out, huh? No hug goodbye?”_ she’s calling him a bastard and she’s telling him to leave. _‘Get out! GET OUT! –I’M DONE PUTTING UP WITH YOU!’_ …he’s wishing he would have been man enough to stay. He was sleeping in the hallway after that, feeling like his world was ending, but fuck her too if she didn’t understand. The walls are cold and the ground’s made of steel, but he’s too cool for any of it.

He hears his mother sobbing behind the door. The door he slept against with a gun in his hand, more nights than he can count. His old toys and his bedroom locked inside. His Ma’s love and his boyhood dreams…locked behind that door forever that night. He’d never see his mother again after he left her there and he’d been too hotheaded to know, just how much he was gonna miss her.

It’s all too much for him to take. He must have died and gone to hell, because he’s feeling everything he’d already worked out years ago, with the sun on his back and The Lone Wanderer at his side. He’d break out of the mold he was shoved into! He’s a rebel and his boys are the toughest gang in 101- don’t mess with The Tunnel Snakes. Susie don’t like him smoking when they play backseat bingo in the messhall, so he’s chewing bubblegum by the pack, hands in his pockets, florescent lighting up his way.

He sees the back of her walking out of his dorm wearing the jacket, which she’d keep for years to come. His heart’s breaking. She’s saving his mother, killing the radroaches, swinging her bat like a demon. He doesn’t deserve it, but he’s thankful, he’s so thankful and she’s so pretty- but he ain’t nice like her. He’s scare shittless out of his mind and he talks tough, but when the time comes, he can’t even conquer his own fears to save the only blood he’s got.

He’s sitting with his mother and when she goes back into her room to get some vodka, she screams. He comes running and his blood runs cold, she’s screaming and he’s choking. _‘AH, BUTCHIE! Help me!’_ he’s standing in the door way, his eyes are bugging out and the bugs…itchy scratchy feet. Being trapped in an airvent he fell into at 5 years old…the roaches, oh god he can’t, he can’t, he can’t, he’s a little bitch- he bolts. He’s looking downt he hallways, the sirens going off, his heart pounding, vision blurring…but he’s too scared to help her.

Then, he sees **her** running down the hall like a bat out of hell. He doesn’t stop to think, because he’s not. He can’t breath, his mother’s gonna die and he’s going to be…alone. Alone, with no sounds in the house, no cards, no picking her up of the couch or her fussing over his hair, he’ll go crazy. He’s begging her to save his Ma’, he don’t know what he’ll do without her!

He’s terrified of losing her.

He’d go on living, but his kid wouldn’t have a grandmother one day…that’s what misplaced thought hits him, as he’s watching the scene play out. In the end, he would live without her alright. He’d learn how to take care of himself, fighting raiders and patching up bullet wounds. He’d leave her to fend for herself in the Vault and she’d probably drink herself to death without him, he’d never know her fate. He’d leave her there just like his Old Man had left them, because he might as well as been dead.

Somethings…you just never get back one you throw them away.

Angel’s searching his eyes, looking over her shoulder. She’s looking angry, then afraid, the she’s cursing… and nodding, making her way to his house, running, telling him to follow her, biting the words at him. _‘Hurry up then, you big baby! … you’re an asshole though for just stopping me right now… of all the… -God, you’re an asshole!’_ he’d follow her anywhere. His heart’s leaping, never being more shocked or guilty in his life, as he’s standing there over the dead roaches. He’s hugging her close and laughing. _‘Oh my god, thank you! You’re right, I am an asshole. But you –you’re the best!’_ she’s looking like she’s going to cry, but he just doesn’t get why.

He hears her laugh and he didn’t question why, not back then. Oh but the laugh was so sad. She was leaving everything behind and all he could do in the end…was watch her go. All he could do was watch her die. He couldn’t do anything for anyone, because he was too late to push her out of the bullet’s path and…a little vault boy with a too big ego, a disgusting coward who’d almost left his own mother to die.

She smells like vanilla and citrus…home.

She’s hugging him back and his smile drops off his mouth, when he starts to understand…how much he hates himself for not touching her like this sooner. She’d held him close before she left and she laugh in his ear, her breath ticklish giving his heart a spasm even during the chaos. _‘Yeah…I am the best, aren’t I? …’_ When he pulls back, he’s uncomfortable, because this is one of the few rare moments, when she’s standing this close of her own free will. He’d never be able to repay her, not for the love she gave him, or the child she bared him, or for her forgiveness…so he gives the only thing he has. He sees her back with his Snake on it and it hits him hard, that she’s about to leave and never come back.

He’s been looking at that back and that blonde hair for far too long. This is the moment when she leaves out the vault door. This is the moment when she leaves the vault for the 2nd time. This the moment that one days leads to her leaving the world and him behind, her heart splattered on the ground and his lap. Everything around him, feels like the ground’s being taken out from under him suddenly.

Then is slowing down or maybe it’s speeding up? Is he dead? Is this hell? He’s got no idea where he’s at the moment or moments that he’s falling through them. It hurts like nothing he’s ever felt though, and he lost his eye and almost half of his face to a Deathclaw.

It feels like he’s dying.

Then his voice is his own, not out of the past, but right then and now. It’s loud and it’s angry, stubborn as hell, the feeling producing words, as he’s reaching for the back he’s always been standing one step behind. “…No…Don’t you leave me- NOSEBLEED DON’T YOU WALK AWAY OUT THAT DOOR!” He’s calling to her, but she doesn’t stop walking. It’s not fair. He can’t stand watching her leave him, yet again and again.

It’s not enough.

There’s a whoosh and a screaming crackle and he’s somewhere else again, watching…

He’s in his school desk staring at the back of her head. He hates himself for looking, because he shouldn’t be. He doesn’t hate her, he just thinks he does, but boy her hair’s annoying to stare at all day. Then the bell rings, and he’s pausing before he gets out of his seat…when the blonde turns around, his heart skips, and his belly tries to do somersaults. How the hell didn’t he notice her looking back at him before?

Who’s this dumb when it comes to their own feelings, because looking at himself, geez he had a hard on for her even back then. He’d never thought he’d ever looking at himself and go, “Jesus, I knew I was a dick back then, but come on…” it startles him, that once again his voice is clear. There’s some relief as the tunnel seems to pause for a little, slowing. He’s groaning like an old man, over what he has to watch next.

His younger face, sticks out his foot and trips her, instead of being sweet on her like that pounding heart should have made him. He’s trying to figure out why the hell he did it, because that time, it wasn’t entirely his idea. Then he hears Wally snickering loudly beside him. Wally was watching and…he wanted to look cool. She’s glaring up at him, disgusted…but she’s looking at him at least.

He’s sneering at her like a bully and saying something mean again, _‘Yo Nosebleed, ya have a nice trip? See ya next fall!’_ He wants to punch himself in the face…the fuck was he doing? That’s not what he wanted to do…in fact he’d actually just wanted to tug her hair. He’d wanted to mess it up and curl it into something halfway pretty looking. He wanted it curled around his fingers and her under him. He’s pissed off at himself for not doing what he wanted…because maybe it would have worked out better if he had. Then Wally’s laughing, snapping him back to where he’s at, as he struts out…playing like he’s the boss, when he’s not in control of anything at all.

The room twists and tears, and now the vortex is covering the walls again, swirling and pulling him somewhere else…

He’s blinking out of the classroom and finds himself with Wally and Paul, drinking in a storage room. A damn storage room. The memories are getting a little odd now. Wally’s guffawing over some dirty joke he just told them, Paul’s shaking his head with a laid back grin, and he’s got his feet kicked up on a box. He’s leaning back staring at a nuddie magazine, blushing and snickering.

Wally’s reaching over, taking one look at the girl between the pages. He’s saying something dirty, making his skin crawl, before he says that he should stick to girl he can actually get. He snorts, because his young pride was wounded so bad, that he’d actually gotten mad. Butch-Man could any girl he wanted, **anything** he wanted! So Wally, being a prick, decides to try and prove him wrong.

Mack really got a kick out of tearing him down when he was young.

Wally’s snatching the magazine out of his hands, just to spite him. Their brawling on the floor, while Paul’s bored tone speaks up saying, _‘You guys are going into lock up if Security comes around.’_ Butch doesn’t give a shit about Security, because all he wants is to put Mack in his place for once. He just wants to teach him a lesson, teach him who was better at knocking people down. He doesn’t get why this moments sticking out for him.

 It’s just a brawl in an empty storage room, till he feels his next set of thoughts during that moment. Wally wasn’t just telling him he couldn’t get girls. He was telling him, _‘Oh I’m Sorry Butch, you don’t have a father to tell you how it works do you? You even know how? Maybe you should just stick to getting the girls you can actually get- think Mrs. November’s hot and ready for you.’_ So he’d show him he could be anything he wanted to be! He don’t need an Old Man to show him and he was more than the vault bastard- more than just a hairdresser.

He has it all under control.

He wants some fucking control damn it! Why does he have to stay in the barber shop when he could be…HE WANTS MORE THAN THIS! It all comes back to him, his self-hatred and a little boy’s insecurities, about not having a father to teach him how to shave. Is he good enough? Is his hair slicked up right?

Does he look cool? Does he…he don’t care what anyone thinks about him! Only he does, he cares so much it’s like a sickness inside him that won’t die. He’s afraid, full of rage and he’s a coward…till he decides he’s not 9 years old anymore. Then he’s just tearing down everything that he can, just so he can feel good about himself.

He’s punching lockers and getting into fights with Security instead of Wally, he’s a dumb ass again…but the 32 year old man in him, can’t do a damn thing from where he’s at. It all comes to an abrupt halt and he thinks it’s over, this journey down acid trip memory lane. Till all he feels is pain from his skin down to his soul, color and light, tearing him apart, as he’s screaming from the burn of it. Then he’s shooting past flashes of memory and stop still pictures, like a lightening bolt. He’s 19, then 18, then he’s not sure what he is. He sees Evangeline’s judging eyes and he’s lost in them.

He’s sorry.

He’s sorry for leaving his mother like he did, he thinks as he sees her, lying helpless on the floor without him in a flash. Drunk and listlessly wandering their dorm calling out to him, _‘Butchie…Butchie, want to play cards with you’re Ma’?”_ He’s saying it through the pain or maybe it’s just a really loud thought. “I’m sorry, Ma’! Christ- I’m sorry.” He sees Paul trying to talk some sense into him and his chest aches, when he sees himself brushing him off. He’s brushing him off to go play bully with Wally, running off to shove Freddie Gomez into a locker.

He sees Susie…she knows she’s just using him to get to Freddie and it hurts. Why wasn’t he good enough? What did The Freak have that he didn’t? Susie’s in his lap and she’s kissing him, but it doesn’t feel right…he can’t have a girl who’s not in it for him all the way, even if kissing her’s kinda nice. She’s crying as she breaks up with him, but he’s not mad…he saw it coming and when it’s just the two of them, he can be himself. _‘I’m…I’m real sorry, Butch…but you didn’t really want strings anyway, right? I’m…I don’t wanna see you for a while and you don’t either…’_

He’s scowling, pissed off at her, but not really angry. _‘Small vault, Susie-Q. How the hell is that gonna work?’_ she’s fed up with him, strawberry hair that he used to find pretty- just makes him think of Wally now and that’s just not a pretty sight in the least. _‘I don’t care! –Just make sure you stay away from, Wally! He knows.’_ He’s wondering if that’s what turned Wally on him the most, if getting kicked to the curb by his sister, built the wedge. Susie might have been his first shot at a relationship, but every time they kissed, it almost felt like they were just stealing from each other, because they couldn’t get what they really wanted.

A flash of pain, so intense it blinds him…

Wally’s kicking the shit out of him and he’s on the ground. He’s not fighting back though, because he crossed a line and he knows it. _‘I TOLD YOU TO STAY THE HELL AWAY FROM MY SISTER!’_ It’s not like he cared what Wally had thought what they were doing behind his back…but he regretted what he did. Christine’s watching him with an exasperated and worried face. She’s off on the sidelines, students gathered around them rolling around in the mess hall. It darts back to Susie’s face, she’s beneath him and it feels nice, but he doesn’t know what he’s doing.

He’s only 18.

He just knows he heard her calling Freddie’s name instead of his and he’s not really thinking about her at all. His thoughts are back on Evangeline on the floor again, staring up at him with disgust…fire. _‘You’re such an asshole, Butch! Go to hell! See you there!’_ He can’t stand himself, because he’s running from what he really wants. Angel’s up again the wall and she feels good pressed there. She’s soft, even as she’s getting ready to knee him in his jewels.

He finally admits then to himself, that he’d found her on purpose. He’d saw her walking and he was nervous and edgy, because Susie had been pushing him to go all the way. Susie pushed and he was thinking with his dick, so he just went with it. Susie wanted to pop his and because Susie was going to sleep with him…when he saw that blonde, he just wanted to make her day harder on her.

Pressing her up hard against the vault wall, would be on his mind the entire time he’d be with Susie. He’d use it as fuel, that moment when he’d cornered her against the diner wall, because Angie’s lips had looked good to him for some reason. He wasn’t sure why, but he knew she’d help him blow off steam, get rid of his jitters. He was lying to himself. Cuz afterwards the bed was cold, Susie went home and he’d just felt dirty.

He regrets it all then, everything before he left the vault, because he’d never chose what he wanted at all back then. He wishes he was honest with her back then, with everyone and especially with himself. He regrets it all…but there’s more than what’s trying to eat away at him. More than the agony that won’t let go of him. He’s not that person anymore…there’s more to him than just regrets- THERE’S MORE TO LIFE THAT HIS REGRET.

There’s grit, spit, sweat, and loyalty, laughter and scars. He’s a father, one hell of a lover, a good mercenary, and a damn near doting husband. He really doesn’t care about what other people think about him, as long as he gets to be alive one more day. He’s Butch Cassidy Deloria, Tunnel Snake and Wasteland Wanderer. He’s a man now and he’s nothing less than the person she made him.

He feels the end of the tunnel coming, he doesn’t know how, but he feels time slowing. It’s all creeping to a halt. Whatever’s waiting he hopes it’ll arrive soon, because he’s pretty sure he’d be screaming if he had lungs to do it. At this point, he just feels like a raw pillar of personality, light, and not much else. Then before he hits the back of where he’s going, he has one final thought, before he meets his end.

He sees his son James, his wife in a blue dress he made with his own hands, and imagines all 3 of them, huddled up in a shack upon a hill. The desert stretches out for miles, the sky’s blue, the sun’s out and it’s just the three of them. It’s the vision of what he wishes would have been. A house on the hill, a family he loved, an honest love with an honest woman, and an honest life. What he wouldn’t have given…to have died and woken up to that.

 

…he’s opening his eyes to a blinding light and he’s not where he was before…whenever or where ever the hell he was. Something’s changed pretty drastically alright. He takes a breath in through his mouth and feels it flood into his lungs. He’s got lungs now. His vision’s blurry as hell, but his heart kick starts when it hits him…that he’s got both eyes to look through now.

He realizes that he’s not just made up of thoughts and memories anymore. His vision starts to clear up more, though all he really sees is white. His bare back is against something hard and he’s on whatever it is, belly up. There’s a ceiling over him again…and it’s really familiar somehow. His jaw twinges and with a grunt, he’s hissing, bringing his fingers up to touch the ache.

When his lifts his arm though…he’s thrown for a loop, by how easy it feels to lift it. It’s like his joints are smoother than they used to be. It feels good to breathe again, because before it was like he’d been suffocating. He blinks his eyes and stops moving, when he sees his hand. He thinks he’s seeing thing at first, because his hand doesn’t have wrinkles anymore.

His hand is paler, un-calloused, and… he’s bolting up from where he’s laying down. He sits up and his head throbs hard enough to have him groaning, making him shut his eyes tight again. His biting out a few swears, feeling too old for whatever just happened to him. “…Christ. –feels like a Brahmin bull, smacked into me dead on… ” He’s talking out loud to himself, when he feels his heart break and squeeze, at the voice he gets in his ear. “Great. You’re up. Now do me a favor, Deloria. Go be someone else’s problem for a change.” His Angel came to meet him at the end of the tunnel after all.

…dying with her in his arms…suddenly didn’t feel so bad anymore.

Because even in death…he’d follow her anywhere.


	3. Honey, I'm Home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ((Hey! This chapter still needs editing and stuff, at least to me. haha I hope people enjoy this though.  
> This was an idea that I had a while ago, that I never made into a reality.  
> I really like the premise and I hope everyone, loves it too!  
> Thank you so much for reading my work!))
> 
> DISCLAIMER: I don't own anything, except Evangeline's Personality, but not much else, haha.

**A/N Song: Tell Me Lies – Deorro (feat. Lesly Roy)**

He hisses in pain and his ears are ringing a little, but he’d know her voice anywhere. After having spent most of his lifetime hearing it, he’d know the velvet drawl of his wife anywhere. Her voice is different to him that it is towards other people, mostly because she never tries to charm him like she does other people. With him she’s all fire or ice, and something about that, is just charming in itself. Regardless, her voice has been in his ears for too long, for him not to know it well enough, that he could pick it out of a crowded room.

As it happens, its dead quiet and, like always, her voice is the only thing, to tell him that he’s not alone.

He spent nights up in his bed, aching to hear her walk through the front door saying, _“I’m back, Butch! …I missed you. You home?”_. He’s been starving for the sound of it all his life. Starving for her. It’s deep and womanly most of the time, but now it just sounds sweet, almost girlish. His vision’s kind of blurry and his head’s on fire, so he’s not processing much else, other than who’s voice it is.

He’s smiling, thinking about how badly he missed her. That’s all that’s on his mind, when her voice hits him, even if the tone’s a little colder than what he’s used to. He opens his eyes and his hand’s rubbing the back of his neck. He’s aching all over, but not nearly as much as usual. He groans, rubbing his eye with the back of his hand, because he’s just so used to only seeing out of his right one.

He blinks a few times and he’d never thought about what it would feel like to have perfect peepers again. He’s greeted with the sight of his knees in jeans and pristine looking tile, a little more excited than he should be, especially about seeing something so boring. When he turns his head to the sound of her voice, she’s right there beside him. His focus is a little split and his brain’s not really all there though. He’s numb from his chest and inward, because he’s waiting for her to notice him.

His wife’s alive and everything else just falls away after that, nothing but tunnel vision. He feels tears in his eyes trying to form. She’s writing something on a clipboard, but he knows she’s got her focus on him, when her eyes flicker up to him. He’s smiling too big, the fact that he’s staring at a much younger looking girl, escaping him. After the jarring ride he’s just been on, whose brains wouldn’t be a little scrambled?

He can’t help himself, he’s responding to her with a voice he can’t believe is his own. He sounds a hell of a lot more youthful and there’s not much gravel in his voice anymore. “…I’m always gonna be your problem, Sweetheart.” He doesn’t take a moment to think at all, because all he sees is his wife, alive and well. He sees her alive, when last he’d seen the life leave her eyes and that’s all he cares about. Maybe if he’d have stopped to see past his heart, he’d of been half wise enough, to see it in the instant he should have.

What came out of his mouth, was a tone he’d earned over years of just not giving a damn. Covered in blood and dust, looking for a can of Spam so they could eat again for the night. Only it came out, in the voice of a much younger boy and before he could stop himself, he’s got his fingers on her wrist. “You’re stuck with me…” She’s a lot slower to react that usual, as he tugs her close. He wakes up to her and she…she’s so beautiful, even when she’s looking at him like he’s grown 5 heads.

And she’s standing in the clinic, that he’d remember anywhere. Her Old Man’s clinic. The clinic that’s in the vault. The vault he’s never gone back to. That clinic.

His reaction is automatic. The affection of a husband of 8 years, which feels more like 100 to him. Wasteland living is hard and fast, but it sure feels a lot fuller than anything else he could think of. He’s smiling at her too big, his words pure, and fast as he can his fingers are tracing her cheek. “…My god, you get younger and more beautiful every day, Angel-baby…” Though, at the look of disgust and alarm, on her noticeably young face, it starts to sink in and his smile’s dripping off his lips, as fast as the facts roll in on him like a pile of rocks.

His heaven, sure as hell better not look like the place he’d always go to, whenever he’d get his ass handed to him.

…it becomes clear as day to him, that he’s not in heaven and 10 years younger alright. She’s ripping her wrist out of his grip and jumping away like he’s caught on fire. Her voice isn’t soft on him or full of the love it took him all his life to earn. It’s nothing, but bite and irritation. “What is wrong with you, Deloria?! Don’t just grab me like you own the place…ew- don’t you ever flatter me like that. You’re lucky I even bothered to give you a bed to rest in…Jerk.” He’s opening his mouth, but he can’t be anything other than sweet on her, even when she’s being mean with him.

So he’s just smiling, unaffected and unafraid of showing her pretty words. Saying a man’s words that he shouldn’t own right then. “Ouch, harsh, Baby…yeah, I am pretty lucky, aren’t I? Probably be 9 times dead without you, Doc. …damn, it’s nice waking up to you.” He tries talking, but his jaw twinges again and he’s hissing, rubbing it with a jaded laugh, he should get the luxury of having, after living so long and hard. “Ach…ss…fuck, that hurts. Should kiss it and make it better. In fact why doncha? I wouldn’t mind, Honey.” He’s laughing through the pain, just like he has for all his life. The way her face twists up…is the face she makes, when she’s extremely uncomfortable, mixed with something shy and untried.

She’s so innocent that it almost hurts him to look at her.

She’s talking without anything nice to her voice though and it cuts him kind of deep, that there’s no love in her eyes anymore. “Shut your big mouth, Dickless. I’m not in the mood. Where’s this coming from and are you seeing double? …Wally really knocked your block off didn’t he?” He’s shaking his head, speechless. It’s like she doesn’t know him anymore at all. His fingers are on his jaw, as his head finally starts to feel, like its small enough not to feel swollen in his skull. He’s about to ask her what day it is, when he looks away from her.

He looks away and there’s a mirror smack dab in front of him. He blinks once. Then twice. Then he’s squinting at the sight of himself. He’s so blown away he can’t keep from saying something, because holy shit- he doesn’t even recognize himself. “Who the hell…is that looking at me…”

He doesn’t even think to give her time to answer, as he’s hopping off the exam table. He’s looking at a ghost, he’s got to be. He’s looking…he leans against the glass with his hand on the wall, unable not to comment. “Is that…Atom’s Balls, look at me…” He’s got both of his eyes again and baby soft skin along with them. He’s talking out loud, his smile plastered on his face, because he’s giddy damn it. “Look at this face! Not a hint of stubble- who’s this little punk, huh? Oh geez, where’s my leathery hide at? Nah, that ain’t me…”

He chortles, looking at himself, shirtless and his eyes are bright. Each one of them. He’s dragging his fingertips across the side of his face that’s supposed to look like…well like he got mauled by a Deathclaw. He’s a little boy practically and his skin feels too smooth. He forgot how good it felt to see with 20/20 vision.

He’s backing up though, laughing at himself, because…he’s so…he’s so- He’s flexing in the mirror, relaxed and staring at the impossible. “No way! Ha! Baby faced bastard…Christ, look at how…fuck- I’m scrawny!” He’s staring at his muscle that’s about…2 times less than how bulked up he eventually became. He’s laughing though, because damn he never knew what it would feel like to be young again. He didn’t think it would feel this good, because he didn’t want to add “I’m getting old” to his list of growing tragedies. He’s twisting and turning, looking at his chest and the tone below there that is just barely, a working 6 pack.

Fawning over himself like a schoolgirl. “Hah! …I’m so scrawny! Haha, oh this is nuts….not a scratch- fresh out of the womb over here!”

He’s rubbing his chin, then his smoothly shaven jaw, feeling excited. He hasn’t felt excited like this in a long time. He feels like a little kid with a brand new BB gun. He feels like every muscle and every pore, is just oozing youth. He could raise some hell with this much energy, but he probably wouldn’t put the fear of god into anyone, not with a sad puppy dog face like this one was.

He’s chuckling so happily, that he completely forgets everything, other the mirror. Which is just like him, because he’s always kind of been a primadonna at heart, even after he started getting wrinkles. He turns his head over and when his eyes land on his audience of one, he has the common sense to look sheepish. She’s got her head cocked to the side, watching his…well by the look on her face, she’s more than a little concerned about his medical condition. Her voice is deadpanned. “Scrawny? … **You** think you’re scrawny?”

He’s staring slacked jawed at her. His silver forked-tongue having taken a nap on him, when he musters up a dead brained answer. “Uhm…” He barks out the next question, fast enough to try and clear the air, because the way that young girl is looking at him…it’s almost making him feel awkward. “Hey, what day is it? Uh…Angie?” She’s sharp as a tack, her expression neutral, and her voice cleverly cool. “Uh- the day hell froze over? Because Butch Deloria just called himself _scrawny_?” He’s about to reply, when he pauses, because he notices the calendar over her shoulder, hanging on the wall.

His blood runs a little cold at the year, the date falling out of his focus.

His voice catches up with him, faster than his thoughts. “What got me here, Sweetheart?” She gets a mean look, cutting him off almost. “Since when am I “Sweetheart”, Deloria?” He can’t breathe right and he’s trying to place a name, which might make him seem less… brain damaged. “Ah…?” He swallows hard and his voice gets warmer, because there’s a name he’s always had for her. He says the right pet name, but he says it with just too much…history behind it. “…I uh…Pipsqueak, if you like that better then. Why am I here?”

She’s rolling her eyes at him, but before she does…he watches her get stuck on the way he calls her…his name. She’s so…girly. Her little fingers are curled around that clipboard so delicately and she’s a lot smaller too. There’s a softer look in her eyes along with her tender age. She’s…17 right now, he thinks.

  1. 4 years before his life really began. The clinic looks so foreign to him now, like a dream. The walls are clean, nothing’s knocked over, and there’s peace everywhere. He watches how her chin raises up with challenge and feels something like pride in his heart at the sight of it.



She’s always been a survivor.

Always been a Smart Mouth. “Why are you **always** in here’s more like it…wait! _“If I **like** that better?”_ Since when do you like me enough to care what I think at all? Thought you didn’t care what anyone thought about you.” He can’t help it, his mouth runs off before he can pretend like he’s not her husband anymore. “I always care about what you think about me, Little Girl.” The way he says it, actually has a little gravel to it and he can tell, that she noticed it too. Her face gets a cute little pink to it, like he shook her footing a little bit. He’s glancing with a sniper’s eyes at the calendar again, as it all comes rushing back.

The bomb, the Wasteland, the tunnel that took him here…to this day…this random day.

But why?

Everything feels so…dreamlike to him. He’s looking on with worried eyes then, all around the room. It’s almost as if…he’d dreamed everything up, all the heartache and the sorrow. He cuts her off before she can comment on the overly sincere line, he just dropped on her. “How long was I out for?” She’s eager to hop to another topic, her back straight, on edge with him. “Ah- maybe an hour or two? …maybe you should lie down actually? You’re not…acting right.” He huffs with disbelief.

He looks at his young face in the mirror again and he can’t even recognize himself. Not till he looks into his own eyes and there, he finds himself again. 32 years old, beat up and battle hardened, fangs and knives and… stuff.  He’s…almost doubting himself. Doubting everything for a second.

Suddenly losing his mind over the thought that…maybe it had all been a lie. His life, the life he built with her, his friends, his scars, his son…fucking everything that he was. The man inside him is angry then, pissed off like a man should be, at everything he’d ever built just…being one big, unreal nothing of dream. He can feel her shiver when he speaks up this time, because looking like he does now… he may look young, but in a split second, he sees his old reflection, scars, killing intent and all. “…How should I act, Evangeline?” He’s seeing his mistake, when he looks back at her.

She’s… scared of him. He deflates and then he’s 17 again, because he always feels like a kid around her and also because, he’s got to be. He can’t help, but feel guilty for making her look at him that way, so he’s apologizing and getting himself together, before he can fake his old tricks again. “S-Sorry…sorry I didn’t mean ta…to scare you.” She gets defensive, but he’s been watching her too long, not to be able to read her like his favorite book. “I’m not afraid of you, Deloria.” He’s putting on his poker face, determined to put his mental breakdown on the back burner, as he does what he does best.

He makes a joke.

His smile’s still softer than it should be, but its smaller now at least, as he attempts to ease her mind a little. “Oh…you aren’t, huh?” He’s sure she can still tell something’s up, but she says what she always would, letting her fall into a pattern she’ll find familiar. “Not even a little bit, Hot-Shot.” He’s raising an eyebrow and what may have been a sneer, a mean shove, and a fight… is now him just walking up to her slowly, with affectionate amusement in his chest and probably plastered all over his face too.

He just can’t quench the kindness towards her that he’s built.

She’s not backing away, but she’s scared alright. He feels guilty, so he tries to talk softly…its odd, hearing seduction out of his, usually clumsy and cocky mouth…especially when he’s trying to sound sarcastic. “…Well…I’m terrified of you, Nosebleed…” She gives him a warry look, as he comes to tower over her, because…well he doesn’t want to be found out, but he also just really likes being bigger than her. She’s staring him down, her voice wry…but it’s not mean. “Oh…are you now?” He thinks that curiosity is a lot better than fear.

He also thinks that he’s not lying. He’s afraid of her locking him up in the clinic and afraid over, if he’s really lost his marbles or not. He’s afraid to lose her. Afraid to hurt her. He’s afraid, but he’s not a coward.

And right now…she’s afraid too, but to him…she looks fearless despite it. She’s staring up at him, looking him right in the eye. It’s strange to see her so much younger, but he can’t help himself, for getting a little hot and bothered by her eyes on his. Maybe he’s just a dirty old man when it comes to her…he’s only ever had eyes for her anyway. He’s leaning closer to her face and she’s hugging the clipboard to her chest, like it’s a shield.

He’s watching her eyes go wider with every step he takes. Her pupils are dilated by the time he gets in her face, but he realizes…he’s probably got a hungry look on his face. He’s trying to act cool, but she’s still his wife and she smells familiar. That fear’s not all he sees on her face and he’s pausing at it, in her space.

He’s not going to cross any lines though, no matter how tempting. Instead, he tries his best to fake like he’s still himself…because he needs time to figure out why…why did she set that time-bomb back to this date? He can’t do that if he’s locked inside the clinic. So…he tries to be mean…but damn he just can’t. Then instead of just tension in the air, there’s something that goes deeper.

She can tell too…and he knows she’s more than just curious about him or tense. His voice gets gravelly, fierce on her, but it’s not The King of The Tunnel Snakes talking. It’s a Wastelander, who’s thirsty for clean water after drinking nothing but sand. It’s a man’s promise, with a man’s desire, and a darkness to it, that promises pleasure. She’s more than curious and he can’t remember her giving him that kind of look before, not with that sweet youthful face.

Maybe, that’s just because he was too afraid to be honest…only now, he’s being too honest for his own good. What would have been a taunting tone or a snotty, mocking kind of put down…has turned into a sexual innuendo. He purrs it against her mouth, intense, his eyes probably darker and his thoughts about what he wants to do to her loud and clear. “Oh yeah, Dolly…you’ve got me shivering over here…I’m shaking in my boots…you can’t tell?” She’s clearly been caught off guard, her eyes are wild, confused and…he’s got to back up, before he chases her off with something, a lot more friendly, than he’s trying to pretend he’s not being with her.

He clears his throat, gives a halfhearted scowl her way, which doesn’t have much effort put into it. His eyes look up at the calendar, searching the “X”ed out days for the current one. When he lands on the month and the day…he almost shrivels up with the epiphany. His voice is smaller than he means for it to be, when the words leave him. “Your birthday’s tomorrow…” He knows why…and it’s not even a day that should have stood out.

It was a secret he’d told her a few times. There was one time, before her birthday, when he’d almost felt bad enough to get her something. He didn’t have any ration coupons to spend on her, or he’d of gone hungry and he wasn’t nice enough, to go that far for her at the time. So he got some markers and some paper, pencils and things…made her a birthday card. He’d thought too hard about whether he should give it to her or not.

He never did, but he’d mentioned it to her more than once; about what might have changed between them…if he’d been just a little bit less of an asshole.

She huffs, like she’s been slapped and uses her clipboard to shove him away. He might not have the face of a Dusty Old Snake, but he had the reflexes of his youth, alongside the survivor sharpness of his mind. He could have stood there firm and not have let her catch him by surprise…but he knew she couldn’t stand him being so close. He let her push him back, staggering a little and not just for effect.

She was still pretty strong, even without The Lone Wanderer’s experience running through her veins.

She’s huffing at him, sounding twisted up and he’s able to put a little effort into his smirk, because she’s cute like that. She’s shaking her head, growling and side stepping around him towards the front of the clinic. “I don’t know what game you’re trying to play with me right now, Butch, but I’m not playing it with you.” He’s reaching for her wrist, instead of snatching for it like he might have once upon a time. He gathers it up and she’s forced to stop walking, her shoes screeching a little on the floor.

He’s waggling his eyebrows at her, keeping it together enough to get rid of her…because he’s got to find a corner to think in. “Hey, I’d let you play with me alright~ What? Aren’t you worried if I’ve got brain damage?” He knows he’s baiting her and she takes it, because admitting that she’s worried about him, is the last thing she’d ever do at this point in their lives. She tugs her wrist out of his hands and with a chilly laugh, the blonde leaves him there…and his heart pangs when yet again, he gets that view of the back of her. “You’ve always had brain damage! I’m done treating you- stay or go, I’m leaving. You’re jacket’s on my father’s desk.”

He’s following after her and if she turned around, she’d see his face…full of deep seeded despair. She didn’t look back though and he’s stopping short, fighting the impulse to give chase. That’s all he’s ever known, is chasing her. Instead, he’s alone and his face lacks humor. The smell of rubbing alcohol is thick and its bringing back memories, which he’s starting to think are delusions.

He can’t have just imagined it all. He’s turning on his heel, his gait smoother that it should be. He’s used to tripping over rocks and rubble, having to keep his footing on sand…it felt too real to be a concussion’s doing. He stalks his way into the inner office, back towards the exam table and sees his old leather.

Almost brand spanking new, no bullet holes or blood stains. Her blood stains for the year she spent away from him. He’s not sure how to feeling…till anger riles inside him again. His breathing’s harsher and if looks could kill, that leather would be burning up faster, than Wally’s jacket on Paul’s corpse. Somehow…it had lost some of its character.

Then it hits him. _‘Paul…Wally…’_ He takes a glance at his reflection and sees…he doesn’t want to look, because for some reason, he’s panicking over what he sees now. His heart’s pounding at the thought of seeing Wally again, while feeling the sting of a past that…that hasn’t happened yet. Or might never have even happened at all. He just… wishes he could see the scars he earned…because now, he can’t tell if he’d ever had them at all; not with smooth skin like he’s seeing.

He still feels like he’s got scars thought. His hands start shaking and he’s wondering, if he was such an asshole, because his blood just ran hot when he was… because he was 17. Young and stupid. Hotheaded. He finds his white t-shirt folded on the desk beside his Snake, along with his Pipboy.

He’s not sure how long he can fake being…being like **this** with one more person. He’d made mistakes and he refused to repeat them…just because it…it wasn’t real- it didn’t mean it didn’t matter. He’s tugging his t-shirt on forcibly, getting his Pipboy on and then getting ready to punch a hole in the damn glass. It mattered, all of it. It was real.

It had to be.

He’s shrugging on his jacket and bolting towards the clinic doors. When his feet hit the hallway steel, he’s having deja-vu back to a time, that feels like it happened decades ago. Only he’s standing there without any proof of what he feels. He’s clenching his hands and feeling claustrophobic. He fucking hates the thought of being trapped here again.

He hears footsteps coming around the corner beside him and before he can think to bolt, he hears a long dead man speak. “…Another bloodied lip, Butch? Or is there something else, which has you loitering in front of my Clinic?” He’s too rattled to compose himself, so instead of treating the man like an elder, instead of being a smartass like he should pretend to be, he’s saying the man’s full title, like he’s a phantom. “...Dr. Blackwell.” When he looks to his right, he meets the doctor’s eyes. If anyone could unravel his current mental state, it would be the man who could lie better than anyone he’d ever met. Other than the man’s daughter…when she had to.

James Blackwell raises his brow and Butch is itching to bolt. “Butch.” The man’s voice is…intimidating. Which is a compliment in Butch’s mind, not so much something he really feels anymore. He used to maybe…but now, he just feels respect. Respect he shouldn’t have, because the years that took him to have it…might not even exist.

The past is starting to look like a fantasy to him and he’s not sure what he’ll do…if there’s nothing but this for the rest of his life. He’s been used to open spaces for so long…he’s grunting, playing the aloof young man, hiding the sweat on his brow, by turning his back on the Doctor. He’s believable when he shrugs like he’s not falling apart. “Nah…nothing I can think of, Doc.” He listens for the doctor’s following footsteps, as Butch halts in his escape. He looks over his shoulder at the man, as one thought occurs to him.

 _‘Project Purity…if its real then…then so was the rest of it…if not…’_ Butch isn’t used to being afraid…not like this. Sometimes he was afraid of dying, in that adrenaline rush fight or flight kind of way. Sometimes he was afraid of letting his loved ones down. Sometimes he was afraid…but he hadn’t been afraid of being locked up in a hole…in what felt like a _very_ long time. James is still watching his back, the Docter’s tone…challenging, almost like he’s taking a jab at him, clever man that he was. “Did you think of something?”

Butch makes up his mind then…he’s not gonna show his hand, till he’s sure. He was pretty good at playing poker and his poker face was only matched…by The Lone Wanderer herself. He’s sneering like his life depends on him being a brat, while laughing over how…James was a Wastelander and Butch knew a Waster from a Dweller just by glancing at him. “Ohohoho… Nah~ nothing, but empty up here.” He’s turning his back and rapping his knuckles on his head…but he knows he messed up. Being proven wrong for 10 years of your life…humbles you.

And he’d never knew how to laugh at himself, before being humbled by life. He feels James’ eyes on his back, even as he turns the corner and starts walking towards home. Gliding’s more like it, because the sneer he put on falls into shreds, the moment he rounds the corner and the weight of his current reality hits him.

 _‘I can’t be crazy…10 years doesn’t just- just fuckin’ fall off you and vanish.’_ He sure it was time travel…but somehow, he’s not sure anymore. He’s only ever known one thing all his life, one flow. His composure unravels the closer he gets to his front door. His head’s starting to burn again and his hearts pounding against his ribcage. Was it a lie?

Her skin in the moonlight, blonde hair on his pillow, her mouth pressed to his? Moira’s weird errands? Conquering his fear of radroaches and then of fuckin’ everything in between, from ferals to behemoths? President Eden and The Enclave, the time-bomb and the war? Fuck, even Mickey begging for water outside of Megaton?!

Was it all just a lie?

He’s losing it now, for real. He hasn’t felt this insecure about his own sanity since Vault 106. He’s hyperventilating and talking out loud to himself. “…lies all of it…no- ‘s not…fuck- I’m not nuts…what the fuck do I do…?” He’s not even sure how he got home, because one second he’s having a psychotic break and the next, he’s just standing there in front of his old dorm. He just stands there, for what feels like 10 minutes…staring at the door.

He laughs bitterly and turns, letting his back slide down the wall opposite of it. His spine inches down the metal and the life drains out of him, with every inch, till he’s staring at his boots on the floor. He… he’s pretty sure this isn’t the first time, that he’s had an existential crisis or whatever. He feels lost…till his head feels like it’s angry at him. He’s swearing so loud that he’s pretty sure they heard him outside the vault door.

“SON OF A BITCH!-“He’s got a hand clutching his forehead and there’s a moment, that feels like bloodbugs, are sucking out his brains. Colors, time and light in a tunnel full of his life’s every moment. Stretching and tearing- so real, no one could put a doubt into him. He can fix it. He can fix whatever’s coming for him in the future- Eden’s going to fucking die!

He might have spiraled even further down the road of… bitching and moaning, that he was going down for hours. If not for his front door opening at that very moment. Then, again that day…he hears a voice he’d recognize even if he lost both his ears. “Can I help you, Butch?” His Ma’ could chew him out so loudly, he wouldn’t need his ears to hear it…he could probably feel it in his bones. He grunts, as the pain subsides.

He’s staring up at her then and his breath catches. He never thought he’d get to see her again. “…Ma’?” As soon as he sees her…it’s ok. Her green eyes connected with his, with a bored look. She’s talking to him…like before everything went to hell. “Is there a reason **why** you’re screaming your head off two inches from this door? Because you’re Ma’s nursing a hangover and you’ve got a dumb look on your face.”

The laugh that steals his voice from him, is genuine. She reminds him…of his wife. Everything goes on the back burner, as he talks back to her, with a son’s endearment. “You’re always nursing a hangover Ma’…and if I’ve got a dumb looking face, it’s your fault for passing it to me in the gene pool.” He watches a dreamy look shoot through her eyes, and somehow…he can feel her pained expression more then he used to, because for the first time, he can relate to it. “You’ve got your father’s face.” He doesn’t care about anything then, because the pressure’ll just overwhelm him if he thinks about…what’s real right now.

Because right now his mother’s real, leaning against the doorframe and busting his balls. Speaking of balls, he’s getting to his feet, as he says something to cheer her up. “Yeah, his good looks and your balls.” Sure enough, her snickering chortle hits and then…then he’s pulling her into a tight hug. Which is not what he’d have done before…but he doesn’t care, because this is what he’s going to do now. His Ma’s almost as tall as him and he’s got a few good inches on her, but he can still rest his chin on her shoulder.

She splutters at him, clearly surprised. “A- What are you doing? Don’t just manhandle me, boy!” He hums out acknowledgement that he heard her, but he’s not letting go yet. He missed her. She’s smacking her lips at him, patting the back of his head, questioning him. “Are you drunk this early?” He’s tearing up, because damn…he missed his mother.

His voice comes out steady enough, still emotional. “Nope. But I bet you are.” She snaps at him a little, just like a mother. “-Hey. Watch it. I’m not too old to beat you up.” He’s squeezing her tighter, before letting her go, his hands on top of her shoulders. He never got to say it to her enough back in the day, so he’s not going to miss his chance. “I love you, Ma’.” His mother gives him a shocked face, before a suspicious one. “…who’d you kill today?”

He’s laughing, making a sound of feigned hurt. “Awe…Ma’, that really hurts. Cuts me deep you know.” Before he’s waggling his eyebrows at her, being funny with her. “No one yet, but it’s still early, right?” His Mother swats at his chest, smacking at his arms a little too. “Don’t you try to butter me up.” He’s laughing, but then his face goes solemn. He was never strong enough to stay for her…

…He’s pulling her into another hug and she’s squawking at him. “Damn it, Butchie! Did somebody die? What’s wrong with you today?” He’s wanting to cry a little and he’d thought he was past tears by now. He’s holding her like she’ll disappear…and the fear is more real than he wants to think about. He just laughs at her, being the son that he wants to be. “Can’t I just hug ya? Tell you I love you, Ma’? Maybe I don’t say it enough…and I’m really sorry about it.” He feels his Ma’ deflate, like he’s blindsided her.

He feels her petting the top of his head, like when he was little. He squeezes her again, just to annoy her and she’s prickling like he knew she would. His mother was always a cranky broad. “Ach- Enough! You’re squeezing the life outa me!” He’s snickering and he’s letting her go, but she’s smooshing his face between her palms. He used to get angry when she would.

Now…it just makes him laugh. Which his Ma’ seems to notice…but she doesn’t say anything about it. She just keeps doing it and he lets her baby him. She’s making a sound like she’s disappointed. “I thought you hated getting _the smoosh_.” He’s grinning…because damn, he’s home again.

Everything’s fine again. His mother’s not drunk today or sad…and even if she was, he’d still be happy as hell to see her. He missed his mother’s hugs and her voice and just…she wasn’t prefect, but she’d always, always be his only Ma’. So he’s laughing at her, letting her push his cheeks between her palms. “Do your worst, Ma’.” She’s staring at him real hard then.

She’s humming like an old wise woman, who’s thinking up some kind of advice to share. Instead, she plants a big kiss on his cheek and gives it a matronly pat. “Well, your Ma’ loves you too. Now hurry up and get in the house. You’re causing a scene.” She’s taking a step back and waving him in. He stands there for a minute…letting his worries float away for a while. He’s taking in the house he used to call a home.

The couch on his right is still the same…navy blue and covered in beer bottles. The floral paintings on the walls, their kitchen, hallway leading to his mother’s room and then towards his room off to the side. It’s just like when he was a kid. He walks in and the door shuts behind him. He…doesn’t feel as caged as he used to.

The house feels…warmer to him, than the rest of the vault. His mother’s walking past the couch and their coffee table, making her way to the kitchen table. He’s looking around his childhood home, like it’ll just blink out of existence any second. He makes everything etched into his head like he’ll need it, just to survive without it one day. His mother’s sitting at the table, smoking a cigarette and working on her embroidery.

He pauses, just staring at her, a dumb smile on his face. She looks so sweet sitting over there. When she notices him staring though, she’s still his Ma’ alright. “Quit gawking, before I sew your eyelids shut! It’s rude to stare. Listen to your, Mother!” There might have been a time, where he’d fly off the handle at her, over something stupid and childish like that. Her telling him not to stare.

Instead, he just says what he was thinking for once. “Awe sorry, Ma’…I just like watching you sew. You look real sweet over there…you know. Till you talk. Ha.” He watches her hands stop for a second and he feels guilty. Did he really never say nice shit to anyone? Not even his own mother? She’d looked surprised and sounded even more suspicious than she’d been before.  “Well…I guess, you can watch…as long as you’re quiet…and you’re not gawking…”

He’s snickering at her, walking to where his old room used to be, calling over his shoulder at her. “How about I join you instead? Let me get my stuff.” He swears he hears his mother curse, as she pokes herself with the needle. He knows why too. The last time he’d ever worked on his needlepoint beside her…was when he was 12 and he’d stitched the snakes onto his dad’s old leather. He still knows where his stuff is though…he never threw it out.

No matter how angry his Ma’ had made him…he never threw the good things he got from her away. Not till the very end. Even then, she’s the one who’d kicked him out, drunk and hysterical…afraid. She’d been worse the week after the Pipsqueak and the Doc, left them all to clean up their mess.

He’s looking into his mother’s room, turning left down the hallway before it. He frowns, looking at all the empty liquor bottles, remembering drunken slaps and terrible things. He’s not judging her, but he knows he should pick them up…she could step on one and break a hip or something. He’d always been picking up after her…it was just all he could really do for her. Then, his eyes are on his bedroom door, because that old life is this life and he’ll have to face his Ma’ again one day.

He’s brought back to the past…his fever dream of a life.

He’s shoving it away, because he’s not going to be able to think through it like he should. He’s going to have to either accept, that it was all a lie or he’ll just live like how he wants too. Worry about what people will think or do about his change of heart, never. He’s taking in a deep breath, sure of one fuckin’ thing at least. He is who is.

At the whoosh of the doors, his old bed greets him and he’s thinking of Susie- or more like getting a flash of her there. He puts a bullet in the memory, guilty over thinking of blonde hair on his grey pillows instead of strawberry red. He’s sitting on his bed, Wally sitting on the floor beside him and Paul laying across it wrong. They’re 14 and drinking some of his mother’s vodka for the first time, then their 10 sharing baseball cards and comic books. He’s drawn in by his old western movie poster on the wall across from it.

His first and middle name, leaving him with a wistful smile, as he walks over to his bedside table. He sees something on the dresser behind him, out of the corner of his eye, which makes his scoff, as he ignores the assault on his senses. It’s his limited edition, Vault-Tec Philosophy Bobblehead. He used to think it was amazing, just because it was so rare…and how different it looked from any other bobble. He goes over to it and picks it up, just looking at it.

Reading the inscription with vague interest, the hula girl’s hips shaking wildly, **_“Guaranteed to give you a +1 to all of your nothing, because nothing is also something”_** , before setting it back down, amidst the mess on his dresser, with a sigh.

He takes a step or two backwards and just falls into his old sheets like a rock. He’s staring at his ceiling then…he never thought he’d miss the sky. He kicks off his boots and just lies there for moment. Shutting off his brain, shutting out the painful things that made him leave 101 with a broken heart. Then he’s thinking of the things that gave him the broke whatever was left of his heart, which made him want to come back.

He’s thinking of his son again…

He bolts up and pretends he didn’t have it for a moment, that vision. He could be crazy- Wally just punched him too hard…he’s walking to the closet beside his bed. He stares at the collection of hand-me down vault suits with a bitter taste in his mouth. He never liked wearing them and getting out his needles, his thread and pins too, he glances at the pile of untouched leather in the corner…his dad’s favorite piece. He’s digging his toes into the rug that he’s got in front of it, his hands now holding the round tin, a little harder than he needs to. He looks at the tin, then at the snake skin leather and feels tired. He never knew what “The California Republic” was…but there’s a one headed Yaoi-Gui making him feel like a fool, painted on his sewing supplies.

Maybe he did fuckin’ dream a lifetime’s worth of terrible decisions.

He goes to leave, walking past his ruffled sheets, but his bedside table calls out to him. He’s wondering if… he sets his tin on the empty bedside table and opens the drawer in it. He doesn’t know how to feel about the sloppy, yet sincere writing. _“Happy Birthday, Pipsqueak! Sorry for being an asshole…hope you’re birthday isn’t shitty. Let’s try to play nice more? Ok?”_ He picks it up and puts it down just as quickly, not wanting to dwell on it. He doesn’t want to dwell on anything, because the second he walked into his old house, it was all the wonderful things he’d missed from this steel cage, followed by all of the ugly.

He shuts the drawer, gets his stuff, and practically flies out of his room. He’s determined to let the fog that’s suddenly creeping into his head, have its due. He’s not sure why, but his head doesn’t feel right…but maybe he **should** be laying down for a while. Maybe this isn’t real either, maybe nothing is?

He’s heading out of his room, eager to see his mother at the table again, because then he can just focus on her for a while. Ignore the warm feelings inside him, like he’s returned home, from a war that might have just occurred inside his head. His heart clenches…because this place just won’t feel like home for long…not after it wears off. He was never really happy here…even if he would have done things differently. He still would have left, he’d have just made things right before he went.

He groans to himself, observing how neat and clean his room actually is, compared to the house in Megaton. He thinks it looks so clean, that it’s almost boring. It’s almost a more plain and boring of a task to clean, than even having to sweep sand off his bedroom floor every day. He’s making for his living room fast, taking glances at the pictures of him and his mother hanging up along the steel.

There’s one of him and his mother during a Christmas party. Wally, Paul, Amata, everyone…even Angie. He’s smiling in the picture and he’s thinking back to that day…smiling even now thinking back to it. He was little, so young, maybe about 9. His head squeezes on him again, making him grunt, but he’s able to wrap his head around that moment in time, with a bit of forced thinking.

They did “secret santa” or whatever… and at the time, he’d just been excited to get free stuff. He was Wally’s, Freddy was his…He got Wally a whoopee cushion, which would eventually get stabbed, with the new Switchblade his Ma’ would pass down to him. The Toothpick, which belonged to his Old Man. He remembered that day really warmly. He had no idea what life was going to do him back then.

All he’d been afraid of was being forgotten. He worried about his G.O.A.T. score and pined after a father he never knew. He yelled at him mother and thought he hated her sometimes, thought he knew what hatred even was. He hated his mother drinking, hated that she tried to play the perfect housewife when she was sober, only to binge drink for days and leave the house to rot. He thought that living here was hell and yeah, a lot of it was.

He eyes the bathroom door in front of him, remembering more than one night, which he’d had to hold his mother’s hair back. Him and their bathroom, had a pretty damn close relationship when he’d started drinking too. The bottle bit him and he’d carried the vice later into his life. Only when he actually had things to drink away, real loss, death, blood on his hands, did he finally stop doing it so much. His wife hated him drunk and she took care of him…just like he took care of his mother.

- _“Fuck…I’m tired, Angie…I’m tired…” He’s drunk on their porch, crying. She’s standing over him, arms crossed, her face sad. “No. You’re drunk.” She’s pulling him to his feet, dragging him in the house. “I’m tired too, Deloria. Get in here and into bed,before you fall off the walk and break your neck.” He’s falling into sheets, curling into a ball, her fingers running through his hair and his boots still on.-_

-He’s being swarmed with older than old memories and he feels…he doesn’t look it, but he’s 32 damn it. He knows more than he ever did, about being the weak one and being the strong one in someone’s life. He knows that his heads killing him and that he’s still angry and bitter. He knows that he’s got more to be bitter about, than just being his Ma’s guardian. What he doesn’t know…is if it was real, the place where he’d drank to forget everything that he’d ruined.

He sees his mother pulling out a stitch and the sight… it feels real and it’s real enough, to make him doubt everything, for more than a moment. Maybe yesterday he wasn’t holding the mother of his child in his arms and maybe New Vegas was just, that Yao-Gui on his sewing box. He didn’t know shit about medicine, other than how to patch up bullet wounds and stick people with Stim. He thinks if he just…doesn’t think so hard, it’ll feel better. Whether this is the truth or the lie, that his life has all come back to.

His mother’s just sitting at their table, without one damn idea about the place he’s in.

She looks up and acknowledges him, briefly busting his balls. “Hm. I thought you’d grown out of “sewing frilly lace patterns like a little girl”? He might have fussed over her teasing once. He might have even thrown a fit and set his stuff on the counter, ran back to his room. He might have, but now…he’s just comfortable to be sitting there, not having to think. Sitting in his old living room, at the table he used to draw pictures on when he was 4.

So, he just teases her back, kinder than he might have once. “Hey- this is “man’s work”, Ma’. If you taught me anything, it’s that you’re the manliest woman I know.” She’s scoffing at him and playing with him right back. “I’ve got more balls than you at least!”

He's snorting, laughing like a little kid again. Then it’s quiet and he’s got a pillow in his lap. He’s got at least 5 different shades of blue thread and a good idea of the picture in his mind, the image he just can’t run away from. His Ma’ pipes up beside him after an hour floats by. “There’s something different about you today, Butchie…” His hands stop what they’re doing and he’s caught there, not moving.

He keeps stitching. “…Whatever do you mean…? Oh Sweet Mother of Mine?” She doesn’t miss a stitch or a beat. “That. Right there. That voice you’ve got to you… there’s just something…grown up about it- sounds off.” He pricks his finger, but doesn’t swear over it. He just grunts and sticks it in his mouth, before he answers her. “You’re seeing things, Ma’.” He shakes his abused hand and then goes right back to threading the needle again.

His mother seems to let it go, but not before she looks over at his work and puts him on the spot. “Have you been practicing without me, or something? Shit, Butchie that’s better than I could do and I’ve been at this, since before you popped out of me. Whose eyes are they?”He’s smiling, with a darkness to it. The eyes on the pillow, have the reflection of another world, the Wasteland as he remembers it, being show clearly behind them. All in all… he doesn’t like what he sees in ‘em.  It scares him and he’s not going to be able to just forget it.

He’s going to have to think about it. He’s going to have to figure a plan or admit himself into the clinic. He’s either going to have to change the future or admit, that the vault is the only one he’ll ever have. He can’t have it both ways. He was either a very old man or a very damaged boy…maybe he could be both.

His mother doesn’t let him answer, she just whistles and makes a comment, before she goes back to her own picture of an old world animal. “…kind of eerie imagination you’ve got there, boy.” He scoffs and just agrees. “Yeah, Ma’…tell me about it.” Then…they finish their work in another hour. He’s looking at his Pipboy, the time reading 6:29 and he’s thinking of what to make for dinner.

His mother runs into her room to put her things away and he just leaves his out for the night. He stands in the kitchen and puts his mind onto the food. His mother used to tell him, that their people evented the best food, that the Old World had to offer. Taught him Old World Italian, which he rarely used, unless it was while he was charming or making love to…to Evangeline.

His Ma’ loves his lasgna-

- _He’s standing over a fire pit, open air, cold night, stars are out. She’s taking a bite of his Stew and looking like she’s tasting heaven. “Dear God…Butch, what is this? Because this can NOT be Molerat… it’s actually, delicious…” Then she’s on her back, on his jacket, her thighs wrapped around his hips “Butch- keep going-“ Her voice echoes, thunders hallow inside of him.-_

-The glass pan he’s holding, clatters onto the floor, smashing into a million pieces and he’s cursing. His mother comes running out of her room, startled by the commotion. “What are you doing out here?! Renovating!?” He’s picking the pieces up one by one, but he has to stop his mother from walking in. He uses his “daddy” voice for the first time since he held his- “Don’t you walk in here like that, all bare foot! You’ll cut your feet on the glass. Let me clean this up. You’re not hurt right? Geez…You’d think I knew how to hold onto things better.” He’s on his knees, doing something…he would have never done before. Not without screaming, taking it out on his mother, and overall, just leaving her to clean up his mess.

He'd have gotten upset at her just for being there, but…he doesn’t even mind it at all now. He missed it so much, he …he picks up the last piece, when he notices finally, that his mother’s been watching him the entire time. Worried. She’s watching him like a hawk and he’s wondering what she’s thinking, when she finally says something. “…What’s wrong?” He’s not sure what to say to that, so he asks her what she’s saying to him instead. “Nothing…why?”

She crosses her arms and huffs, his shoulders shrugging at her and her eyes…prodding him. “You don’t…seem like yourself today.” He gets it now. He laughs and chooses to agree with her, because he knows he’s not. “Well, Ma’…I’m not.” She’s walking across the kitchen, narrowed eyes and a little intense.

She asks him again, only her tone is the “If you lie to me, I’m going to smack you” kind, that only his Ma’ ever had with him. “What’s wrong, Butchie?” They stand there and he doesn’t say a word. He just knows, that he’s not 17 anymore…no matter how young he looks. He’d have fought her motherly act and stormed out, if she’d dared asking him that before. He takes a deep breath and rubs the back of his neck…feeling older.

 His old leathery hide’s showing through then and his Ma’ hears it, she hears it enough to make her eyebrows raise. “It’s just not worth thinking about… and I’m tired Ma’.” He’s really tired. Tired of this day and he just wants it to end. He wants to go on living and no matter how he feels…he’s a fighter. He’s not the same guy.

He’s different and he’s going to live differently…better. He can drown it out, all of it. The fog in his brain is something he could live with. Maybe? He’s not sure he’s got a choice though.

His mother is really quiet. She’s quiet there for a while, a solemn look on her face. She’s walking passed him, patting him on the back tenderly, as she passes him and lets it go for once. “Don’t worry about dinner. There’s leftovers in the fridge…you go wash up. Let your mother, mother you alright?” He stands there, looking at the floor for a minute and out of his heart, comes everything he’s ever missed about his mother. Simple words, but there’s a thousand different things behind them. “Thank you, Ma’.”

He never thanked her for the little things…or the good things. He just bitched about wasn’t perfect and never really thought about her at all. Selfish. He was selfish. She says it smoothly, sober and without a thought put into at all. “You’re welcome, son.”

Maybe he’d had every right to hate her or be angry with her. She wasn’t perfect, but he sure as hell never was either. They were dysfunctional till the very end, but that’s just what life was. Dysfunctional yet still functioning. It was dealing with the pain you didn’t want to deal with.

His feet carry him to the bathroom like ghoul. Swift and lifeless. He shuts the door behind him and in the tiny room, he’s confronted by what made him drop the glass in the kitchen. He’d thought of Angel’s glowing face in the campfire, her praise, her attention…his love for her. He’d thought about what made him want to get out of 101. What made him want to scratch, claw, bite, just blow a hole open right in the damn door.

He turns on the faucet and the water’s not enough to drown out, the sudden pounding in his head.

This headache, has been coming and going all day, but it gets more like a white hot stab each time, right through his brain stem. He wishes it would either stop or kill him already, that the fog would lift. He’s staring into the sink when he hears a baby crying…only it’s not real. It’s all in his head. It’s all…coming and going.

Megaton blowing, Maggie crying at the rudder, Evangeline’s anguished face, scoping out Enclave Tents, sitting with her on his lap, her chest blown open. He can’t breathe then. He hears himself gasping for air and splashes the water on his face. The cold washes over him, but there he is, listening to the story, of how Angie’s father died to save a world, that wouldn’t do thing, but ask her for favors in return. A world…that was far, far away from this one.

He’s seeing himself in the mirror and he looks half crazed. He can’t tell if it’s really him, because he’s been looking at a different face for almost 10 years now. His mother’s calling him for dinner, but his head’s on fire again and it hurts, it hurts. He’s got both his palms holding onto his head, as he tries to will the pain away. _‘Fuck-fuck- I GET IT! SHUT UP ALREADY!’_ and then…

…He hears a loud pop, a sizzle and sees something shimmering at his temple. He thinks he’s seeing things, until he sees it fall off into the sink. His hand darts to it and catches it, just before the damn thing falls down the drain pipe. He shuts the water off and realizes, that his headache’s gone and his feels…clearer. He’s staring at the weird shimmering circle and as he turns it in his fingers…the shimmer blinks out into very familiar blue black sparks of disrepair and he’s staring at…

-his heart leaps wildly inside his chest. He’s about ready to start laughing like a mad man, when relief washes through him like a flash flood. “I’m getting way too old for this shit…” It’s the chip he’d watched his wife slave over, night after night, in a war tent, 10 years from now. He’d never forget seeing her putting it together…he didn’t know what it was. Guess he did now…

He’s about ready to cry, as his reality cements itself and he knows that he’s not crazy. The fog on his brain is just vanished and his sense of time, place- it just feels natural again. She sent him back and this chip, must have been generating some kind of Time Flow-Obstructer Field inside his skull. No one wonder his head felt like it was burning inside. He’s grining, because this is proof, that he’s not crazy and the solution to his future’s problems.

He hears his mother getting agitated outside the door, but fuck…there’s more to life that this vault forever. There’s more to life, there is an outside and he’s better for it. He’s a lot better without that damn thing messing around with his brain cells- hell the time-space continuum. He can’t rest easy, because this is that 2nd chance he’s always wanted. His past isn’t set in stone and he’ll have a child, a blue sky, a beautiful wife, and a Wasteland to wander.

He’ll get to see it all again one day too. He’s shoving the chip in his pocket for later, because the sooner they can find out how to defeat Eden, the better. Then he looks at the sink and turns on the water again, splashing his face one more time for good measure, when the idea hits him hard. He’s thinking of James Blackwell. He knows if he mentions Project Purity…if there’s one person down here, who’s smart enough to give them an edge on The Enclave…its James Blackwell.

His Ma’s pounding on the bathroom door, startling him. “You having a baby in there?” and he thinks of his son, only this time he’s able to embrace the vision. His beautiful kid. He’s laughing at her, unlocking the door, nothing but hope and plans for the future. “Not yet, Ma’! But one day...” As his mother get dinner ready on the table.

He can stop it all, because he knows what’s coming. It happened, it’s who he is and who he’s going to be. Oh, he’s not holding back either…he’s going to… _”Erase…your…regrets…”._ He sobers up over that last thought, before he puts his mind onto enjoying the time he has with his mother. He’s got time to spare now and he sure as hell isn’t going to waste it.

…He’ll be talking to Doctor Blackwell as soon as he sees him, because he’s going to need all the help he can get.

 

**((TBC))**


	4. Clinical Errors

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ((Sorry this chapter took longer to get out. I'll be writing almost everyday if I can and this particular chapter, will probably be read over and edited a little more even after it's up. I hope that people can enjoy my work again and thank you all for reading!))
> 
> Disclaimer: I don't own anything, except Evangeline's Personality, but not much else, haha.

**A/N Into Dust by Paris Blohm**

She’s not sure why…but there was something odd about him today. He’d never been very nice to her…not for long. He’d hated her for whatever reason and made her days harder, annoying her relentlessly. She couldn’t help it or care too much about it either, because that meant she’d let the bully get under her skin. But…today?

There was such a haunting look in his eyes, the very moment he laid them on her, that for minute, she wasn’t sure **who** she was looking at.

Evangeline Blackwell. She loved stitching together skin and making a difference in the Vault; doing the right thing as best she could for her father. She loved her father, how he doted on her and also, how dedicated he was to his work. She loved puzzles, the intricate kind, where the box wouldn’t open until she’d solved it. She loved old world romance novels, the color blue, sneaking sips of rum with Amata, and rearranging the pieces inside her Pipboy for fun.

She didn’t like cooking, because she just wasn’t very good at it. She was hardheaded at times, a bit spoiled by her father, and had trouble sharing her thoughts with others. Well, accept for Deloria. She never missed a chance to tell him, exactly what she thought about him, and that was where her temper came from. She’d come off cold at times, but that’s only because she liked her privacy.

She loved the gun range and how her father made her feel, when he taught her how to shoot. She’d gotten so good with her BB gun, she could shoot each target blindfolded. She was a collection of ambition, innocent ideals, and curiosity, with a sharp tongue to match. Both a secret romantic and a motherless child’s secret sorrows, were all wedged like smoke inside her pretty blonde head.

She loved many things, very deeply. However, there was one person in 101, which could always bring out the worst in her. He knocked her books out of her hands and tugged on her pigtails, when she was in middle school, till she had whiplash. He stuck his nose up at everyone and stepped on people who were…smaller than him. He made her yell, scream, and push at him, till she was ready to break her knuckles on his jaw.

She was stubbornly nice, but he just didn’t have a nice bone in his body. He rubbed her the wrong way. He called her names and she threw them right back. He was predictably an asshole, just Dead-Beat-Deloria being a dick at all times of the day. She didn’t care what he did, as long as he did it as far away from her, as the vault would allow.

He grew up to hate her, to make her cool exterior hot with rage. He took her out of control and made her want to throttle him. She swore she cared very little for him, but again…she cared deeply for many things. Her future medical practices being one of them.

She only cared whether he was injured or not and he never cared about anyone, but himself and his gang. **_“I always care about what you think about me, Little Girl.”_** Her heart’s racing and her palms are sweating, because she knows, that she made a mistake leaving him there. Not about him being anything friendly she assured herself, but about letting him leave with a concussion that severe. She’d rounded the corner without looking behind her, eager to meet Amata in the diner for a late lunch. She’s angry, not only at the way he’d talked down to her so hotly, but also at herself for letting her emotions get the better of her. _‘“ **Little Girl”?** Who does he think he’s fooling? With that… he’s never that nice or- He **CARES?!** What was that?!’_

 ** _“-Baby faced bastard…Christ, look at how…fuck- I’m scrawny!”_** Was it humility? Was it some kind of trick to make her lose her guard? What the hell did he mean _“scrawny”_ and shouldn’t he get his eyes checked, if that’s what he really thought about himself? Butch Deloria was a lot of things. He was mean, immature, cocky and hot-tempered, but he sure as hell wasn’t _small._

At least not according to his height and it’s with a sneer, she thinks to herself. _‘He only acts so big to make up, for what’s already so small.’_ He was always getting her backed up against a wall, shoving her books out of her hands and then just…pressing against her till she couldn’t breathe. He never hit her or really punched her, not since the Nosebleed incident of 2067; 9 years old and she’d given him a black eye to match. He did that every time when they were alone, almost more than when his boys were with him. Usually she found his weight both suffocating and irritating, like a giant monkey trying to squash her.

Yet, the way they’d been alone, how he’d gotten so close, and how he didn’t…he just stood there a breath away? It felt off and there wasn’t any…bite in him either. For once in a very long time, he’d looked at her without that glint of spite in his eyes and just…just looking at him made her skin crawl, because there was a look she couldn’t recognize. She wasn’t afraid of him entirely, but he was never **that** relaxed around her and that…that was a scary thought. He wasn’t himself when he woke up.

He was always pushing, always taunting and mocking. He wasn’t ever really thankful for long, not to her or to her dad, even if he said it sometimes. He was too stupid not to kick Wally out of his life, because Wally was the most common reason she’d be giving him stitches. He was never thankful and the way he talked to her, well she may not be able to stand the guy, but at least he’d had a pattern. He was an asshole and then he’d stomp away or she’d get tired of arguing and that was that.

They had a routine and today, it had felt like he’d broken it somehow.

She’s got her eyes set ahead of her, her back straight, her fists clenching and unclenching, over that line he’d dropped on her. **_“Oh yeah, Dolly…you’ve got me shivering over here…I’m shaking in my boots…-“_** She swears she’s not affected, lies to herself, even though she feels a tell-tale pang in her heart towards the Tunnel Snake. She was afraid of him and not because he was bigger than her. She was afraid, because at least she knew him well enough, to know what to expect out of him. If he can suddenly say things like that to her? Just play around with her like he did with all the other girls?

Then she’s not sure what the hell he’ll do next time they’re alone, or what **she’ll** do for that matter.

She wants to run from the problem at her back, but she feels guilty, because she knows she’s doing wrong. She growls, when her eyes find the diner up ahead, being down on herself for leaving him like that. ‘ _There were red flags…dad’s not going to be happy if that Snake kills over, because I missed something important…damn it- I should have been more thorough! Why is it always_ ** _ _him__** _on the table?!’_ She only just became a Medical Intern last year, but she wants to make her father proud, by doing him justice. He’s all she’s got really, as far as family goes. She’s not just feeling guilty, because of her father though.

Even if she hated Deloria, she still wouldn’t want to see him dead. Yet every week practically, it’s one of his gang coming in. Wally for a black eye or busted lip, Paul because he cut his hand on his own switchblade, and Butch…For someone claiming to be the “boss” of his gang, Wally sure likes kicking his teeth in. She relishes the days, when it’s Stanley with a cold or Mrs. Palmer with a rash, because those are rare and far in-between. Mostly, all she ever sees is paperwork and Tunnel Snakes.

Tunnel Snakes who might send her to the clinic one day herself, if any of them got too riled up. That was why she’d be thankful, that she’d learned how to shoot from her father. It was why she asked Jonas to show her how to throw a punch and why she always kept her chin up. They couldn’t touch what they couldn’t catch.

Except for Butch…she’s fairly certain he’d never really hurt her, not that badly anyway.

 ** _“Oh yeah, Dolly…”-_** her heart’s jumping at what else he’d want to do to her though. She’s never heard him talk like _that_ , never to her and if he tried, it was never that…confident. She’d never seen him be anything other than loud and childish. But… the look in his eyes, was not a man-child’s taunting glare or filled with the insecurity, she could see from a mile away. It was…something dark.

She’s walking into the diner, glaring at the empty bar, till she finds Amata out of the right corner of her eye. Her friend eases her tension, waving her over and asking her about her day, and Angel’s happy for a friendly face. “There you are, Angel! What took you so long? Did your dad give you too much paperwork again?” She’s sighing, sitting down at the booth with a heavy plop, after having been on her feet all day practically. Amata slides her what’s left of her milkshake and Evangeline sighs, tired. “Paperwork…ha! I wish.” Amata laughs, in a very good mood when Angel’s feeling moody. “Yikes, what’s worse than paperwork?”

Angie doesn’t miss a beat, with a scowl on her face and her fingernails tapping on the table. “Tunnel Snakes.” Amata winces, her smile dampened, her tone sympathetic. “Again?” Angel can’t help, but laugh at that, smiling over the sad annoying truth. “Again. …when is it ever **not** one of them?” Amata scoffs, leaning over the table, in the pose she gets when she wants to gossip. “Stupid Tunnel Snakes… Who was it and did they thank you this time?” Angel’s thankful to have something to laugh about.

A Tunnel Snake thanking her? Not in a million- ** _“-Probably be 9 times dead without you, Doc. …damn, it’s nice waking up to you.”_** She blocks it out, but her hand stops tapping for a second. That was the closest Butch had gotten to thanking her in…a very long time. Her fingernails start tapping again, as she lets her worries fade out of her head. She just wants a nice quiet lunch.

She finishes off Amata’s milkshake and with a tired groan, she rests her forehead on the table. Her voice exhausted from watching over Deloria’s sleeping face. “No one’s _ever_ thankful. Wish they’d all stop measuring their penis’, before one of them comes into the clinic without one…” Amata laughs, choking on it and coughing, while Angel looks up at her grinning. Amata made her smile and was always there after work, faithful. “Geez, Angel! Don’t say stuff like that so loud…someone will hear you. … that puts “sword fighting” into a new light for me…thanks for that picture.” Angie watches her light up with mischief, however.

She’s saying it conspiratorially, making her feel better about having to waste her day, babysitting an over grown infant. “What makes you think they have them to begin with?” Angie’s snickering, rolling her eyes, chewing the fat, about to wave Andy over for a burger. “Sheer speculation and years of reading anatomy books.” They’re giggling like schoolgirls, when Amata taps the table, hushing her. “Look out. It’s their fan club.” Angel’s fingers stop tapping, as she pushes the empty glass away, waiting for the inevitable. Sure enough, there’s Kendal.

Being a bitch.

Her voice icy cool, like a true vault 101 socialite. “Oh, look. It’s a train wreck, girls. Don’t stare too long, it’s sad.” Angie rolls her eyes and Amata’s face gets an annoyed look. Evangeline loves her friend, but she really shouldn’t be surprised by it. Christine and Monica Kendal, Susie Mack, and Janice Wilkins, come pouring into the diner, each one strolling past their table, without giving them much notice. Evangeline takes one look at Christine and then at Susie, firing off a little steam of her own, too tired to let it be. “Oh look, Amata! It’s Larry, Curly, Mo… and The Homewrecker.” Angie sees it coming, because if there’s one thing that never changes its war…but also a Mack’s hot temper.

Evangeline rarely went out of her way to poke needles at them. Well, unless it was part of her daily tasks. Needless to say, Susie Mack had recently been antagonizing her more often than not and Angie, didn’t know why. She’d come in with bruises now and again, but also for… condoms. She and Susie, well they didn’t talk much and on a good day, Angie’d cut her some slack.

Angie shouldn’t have made the jab, but her feet were **killing** her and Christine was _asking_ for it.

Susie’s squawking at them, settled between Monica and Janice, slamming her hand down on their table, and flying off the handle. “What did you just call me, Nosebleed?!” Evangeline, normally ignores them and vice-versa, because frankly she knows better. However, coupled with today’s bizarre events and working late nights, Angel’s not in the mood for peacefully letting them dump on her. Before the fight can escalate to Angel shoving her away from their table or Susie pushing her face _into_ the table, Monica’s tugging on her older sister’s sleeve. Christine’s sighing in annoyance, making a passive aggressive jab at her “friend”. “Oh cut the gas, Susie! …You know she’s not wrong.”

Evangeline looks from Kendal to Mack and wonders, why they’re even friends at all. Amata and her have fought before, but never like the other girls did. Amata would yell and Angie would yell back, but neither would ever come to blows and forgiveness was always the end of it. Susie’s not the worst Mack, but all Mack’s tend to hold grudges, at least as far as Evangeline knew. So whatever she’d done, it must have been much worse than anything Christine had said to her.

Amata’s voice draws their eyes, adding to the fire. “We didn’t ask you to walk by us.” Evangeline’s good under pressure, but she wishes she didn’t have to be. It’s what’ll make her a good surgeon one day and what keeps her mouthing off during an argument. The girls are standing much too close to their table and it has her heart thumping wildly. She’s never been afraid of taller people, but sitting down like this with them all standing there, has her anxious.

Susie’s turned on Christine now, sneering with a look of insult, her voice full of poison sweetness. “What, are you implying, Christy?” Monica’s edging by her sister and finding a seat at the bar, far away from the rest of them. Angie swears she hears her mumbling. “Here we go…” She hears the diner door open and when Angie turns to look over her shoulder, more people are flooding in. Angel’s scowling, thinking to herself. _‘Great. That’s prefect. I didn’t want to eat lunch anyway. …Who needs food to live right?’_

She’s starving and hasn’t eaten since breakfast. It has her wishing that whatever drama is between Kendal and her debutantes, will just go join Monica at the bar. Poor Janice is caught up behind Mack, shrinking down. Evangeline’s giving Amata a sorry look, which says that she should have just met her at home for lunch instead. She thought the diner would be empty, what with the newly renovated mess hall constructions finally being finished.

Christine’s looking down her nose at them, while smiling with venom. “Ask Blackwell.” Evangeline’s not sure what she’s starting, but at the sound of her name, her eyes dart to Susie. Susie seems to think she knows exactly what Kendal’s saying however, her crazy eyes back on her instead. “Ask you what, Loser? What do you know?” Amata’s shuffling out of the other end of the booth, getting out on the other side. She’s making to pull her out by her arm, her tone one that she knows well, because it’s a “Spoiled Daddy’s Girl” trying to mask her fear, kind of tone. “It’s gotten too crowded in here.”

Kendal’s piping up, calculating something and Angel might not like her, but she’s got a kind of cunning to her, which she respects in a way. “It’s what her father probably told her. He’s the vault physician after all.” Susie’s standing there, looking shell-shocked and flushed. The look on her face, full of…secret shame. Angie’s not sure why, but she does know that her father takes “Doctor Patient Confidentiality” very seriously.

Probably to his grave even.

Susie’s taking a breath, calming herself enough to snatch the fork off their table. Evangeline’s grateful for her best friend, because without her, she wouldn’t have had the common sense to move farther away, without having been pulled. She was that tired and she’s fairly sure, her hunger was making her light headed. Mack’s brandishing the fork like a weapon, Angie eyeing her with warry eyes, a seat now between her and Mack. She’s not sure if it’s just in their genes, but from Stevie, Wally and then to her…Angie’s never cared for any of them.

The family is sadistic, ill tempered, and the siblings all enjoy instigating violence. Maybe she just doesn’t like Susie though, because out of all of them, Susie’s probably the least awful. She’s overheard her talking to Janice more than once, about how she hates how her brother’s act around everyone. She’s going to be teaching them all one day apparently, according to the G.O.A.T. and sometimes, Angie wonders if the G.O.A.T. isn’t just full of crap. Though, she’d never spread such **treasonous** things, especially not to Amata over a stolen bottle of rum.

Susie’s issuing a warning, which has Monica looking bored off in the corner, yet still drawn by it. “Right now, I’m paying attention to you, Blackwell. It’s not a good thing. Whatever you know, you’d better forget it.” Amata’s barking from beside her, her fingers shaking on her arm a bit. “Can’t you tell she’s baiting you? Keep your claws to yourselves, God! We’re going!” Evangeline’s piping up after her, agitated, but with a cold even voice. “Put that fork down, before you poke your own eye out. I’m not treating it if you do. I swear, I don’t know _what_ Kendal is spreading around about you.” Over from the corner Monica makes a wry comment, drawing their ears and a few stares from other spectators. “Nothing near close to how much **Susie** ’ **s** been spreading around…” Mack’s back straightens, looking behind her, ready to break someone’s nose.

Angie feels…bad for her. She can’t understand why they’ve all stuck together for so long. She thinks it’s probably just because it’s always been that way, like with her and Amata. Susie’s about to tear into the younger Kendal sister, when Janice puts a timid hand on her shoulder. The quiet red head not saying a word, as Susie’s green eyes flicker from Monica, then back to her, and finally on Janice’s gentle fingers.

The tension is shook apart by Christine’s haughty laughter. “Oh, lighten up Suz. **Everyone** knows why you stop in the clinic every week. You’re making a scene.”

Angel scoffs, drawing Susie’s attention again, and finally stands up. She’s standing beside Amata now, happy to have the entire table between them. Especially, when she snaps and lets her Smart Mouth get ahead of her brains. “Why don’t you just go and be the tunnel for Deloria’s snake! Instead of ruining my lunch. Not all of us can afford to play around. Some of us have actual jobs to return to.” Susie looks about ready to blow again at that. Amata’s hand is on the crook of her arm, as Susie huffs waving the fork at them, biting back a reply. “At least boys want to talk to me! I work just as hard as you, Blackwell! **And** one day, you’re going to be alone! All the fuck alone, because no one wants to be around a prissy little mouse like you! Say something else! Come on. I dare you!”

Angie’s brow furrows, when Christine’s already walking towards the bar like the queen of 101, calling behind her. “Let’s not let them ruin **our** lunch. _Come on_ , Susie. Learn to take a joke.” Susie’s looking at the back of Christine’s head, like she knows exactly where to stick the fork she’s still gripping. She may have ample weight behind her threats, but in the end, they all answer to Christine. Evangeline’s stomach pangs, as she wonders what has Mack so onto her lately. Or any of them for that matter.

It’s been a while since they’ve picked a fight. Angie knows why though, if she really stops to care. There’s been dissension in the ranks, petty squabbling over which of them is the most desirable for marriage. It’s not much of a secret, that Christine’s had a crush on her cousin or at the least, cares for him a little more than she should. Susie’s been sleeping around with the wrong Tunnel Snake.

Mack crossed some lines when she starting hanging around with him more. No one’s sure if their dating or not, mostly because Wally would probably have a meltdown if they were. Hell, most people think Susie’s been sleeping with Deloria for a while now. It’s the most blatant secret that everyone already knows, except for Wally that is. Then again, if they aren’t sleeping together…who’s putting those bruises on Susie’s body?

Everyone sees them and the locker room hides nothing from anyone.

Angel halfway wants to reach out to her more and the other, just wants to keep away. Social justice keeps her life interesting and also, full of stressful encounters. She doesn’t think Susie would ever be up for a “heart to heart” with her. After all, she’d made it clear that she should avoid her a long time ago. Susie’s letting the fork clatter onto the table, breaking Angie out of her thoughts.

Mack’s deliberating what to do, when Janice mumbles something.

Susie nods, but before she follows after the Kendal sisters, she leans across the table and gives them both a dirty look. Barking at them again like a dog, more bark than bite this time. “If my hallway’s full, don’t be jealous that yours is empty. Butch _really_ knows how fill a hallway. Tunnel Snakes Rule, **Smart Mouth Virgin**.” Evangeline’s not really insulted, because she’s used to it. Still, she can’t say it doesn’t hurt a little, in an odd kind of way.

That **virgin** jibe.

Like rolling around with someone like Deloria, is supposed to be some kind of gift from God. She’s looking Mack in the eyes, feeling guilty for something that’s not her fault…and it’s not her intact chastity. The diner’s pretty loud now. Though Evangeline’s caught between being the bigger man and being the smart one. So instead, she does a little bit of both, being a smartass and being generous. “Eat me, Mack. Pick on someone who doesn’t know your medical charts.”

Angel puts her hand on the table and leans closer, so only Susie can hear her, because she’s not one to spread rumors. She can’t pretend she’s not concerned for the girl either and sometimes, she hates how much her father has rubbed off on her. Her expression full of quiet pity, she watches Mack’s face go stone cold, as she says it gently. “…and maybe instead of letting Christine run your life, you should stop by the clinic. …Those bruises look painful and I don’t let grudges keep me from doing my job.” Susie’s stiffening up, not saying a word then. Angel slides her hand off the table and Susie’s taking a deep breath, narrowing her eyes at them.

She’s slinking off to sit by her friends, without a reply. Janice exchanges an apologetic look with her. Evangeline nods, because she knows that this is just how things are. People keep secrets and ignore what’s too hard to handle. Nothing ever changes.

Angie’s pushing past Amata and she’s tagging behind. The diner’s packed full of engineers from the lower levels and pretty much everyone else, who’s off on a shift break. Everyone just watches things like this happen. If someone gets stabbed or bullied, no one really steps in, so you’ve got to learn how to push back a little. Either that, or you let people push you around without any consequences.

Like Janice and Freddy or really anyone that The Tunnel Snakes set their eyes on. Security steps in if it gets too bloody, but honestly, nothing really changes. Amata’s jogging up beside her, catching up to her, huffing. “Hey, wait up!” Angie’s cocking her head at her, feeling more than a little peckish. “I am. Thought you were behind me. You alright?” Amata’s taking a few breaths, sounding winded. “Oh sure. I didn’t want to have lunch anyway. …My father keeps me on a strict diet after all.”

Angie’s not sure if she’s kidding or not, but assumes she is, forgetting to care about being chased out of their table. She wasn’t in the mood to take a stand today anyway, though she could have. That fork would have probably been wedged in someone by the end of it though. Besides, Susie’s been having a rough time and Angie’s got her father’s penchant for being too understanding at times. Evangeline’s walking towards the Atrium, elbowing her best friend. “Oh does he? Really?”

She’s grinning, until she notices the look on Amata’s face. She hadn’t been joking. They never really talking about the Overseer. It was a sore spot for Amata and Evangeline didn’t like poking it. She tried to avoid conflict, because it made her… uncomfortable.

Which is why **Butch** made her want to scream. He was always looking for trouble and giving it to her. Trouble…and a headache. Even when he wasn’t around. She’s choosing not to think about him, opting instead to make a pit stop at the vending machine with Amata.

The walk around the corner is quiet, till Amata speaks up. “So, vending machine? Then the Tree on the Hill?” Evangeline’s quiet, dwelling a little on things that she can’t help. Amata’s father… is a tyrant and treats his daughter like a good piece of stock. Grooming her, feeding her, sheltering her…without ever truly being involved in her life. Angie nods her head, as they make it to the vending machine, which lies just before one of the entrances to the Atrium.

They could have just walked straight in from the diner, however this vending machine’s special. They both put their ration coupons in and low and behold, it drops what Angel had been hoping for. Her voice giddy, as they take their Cola and Fancy-Lads Snack Cakes. “Looks like our luck’s back! Haha, Nuka-Quantum, Amata-naut! Check it out. Only vending machine that still has some left!” Amata’s taking the cherry Nuka and pouting a little, clearly a little jealous, when she replies. “Darn it. Of course that’s waiting in their right after I get mine. You’re sharing right?” Angie’s shrugging, playfully elbowing her as they walk to the Atrium doors. “Maybe, but you own me… a non-descript favor in the future.”

Amata just snorts, as they continue on their way.

When they get to the Atrium, Angie’s greeted by the fake green grass and the field that they’d play baseball and soccer in. She likes the Atrium the most out of all the rooms in 101, with a few other “INACCESSABLE” doors only she can get into. They’ve read about “sunlight” and “summer breezes” before, but other than the high 3 story ceiling, it’s just like any other room in vault. It’s the largest room, however and it just makes her feel…good. She likes her privacy, since the vault feels cramped at times and as odd as it sounds, not many people come into the Atrium.

She hates it sometimes, being packed into the diner. Not only for the lack of space, but also because she’s surrounded by annoying people. It’s kind of a drag, when you’re 17 and still live around a bunch of grade-schoolers. She likes to think she’s a little more matured than the rest of their classmates. She does tend to have her moments though and most of them, happen when Deloria’s around.

They’re walking past the field, towards the tree on the hill, walls still all around them in every direction. The tree is the only one of its kind, fake yet lifelike, though there’s a miniature forest down the other side, which seemed so much bigger when they were kids. Everything in the vault seemed bigger, when they were smaller. Amata speaks up, changing the topic and steering it back to her work again. “So who was it today?” Evangeline’s sitting under the fake oak tree with her back against the bark.

She sighs, playing dumb. “Who?” Amata tskes, joining her cross legged at her side, as they both look at the windows of the diner from up on the hill. “You know? Who came into the clinic today?” Angel’s huffing at her, till her heart warms. Amata always askes her about her day and just treats her like…maybe like a mother would. Evangeline throws that thought away, as fast as she can, for fear of being brought down by it.

Angie’s smiling, laughing and then she’s remembering, letting a patient with a concussion just waltz out of her care. **_“Hey, I’d let you play with me alright~ What? Aren’t you worried if I’ve got brain damage?”_** She’s scowling and her stomach’s growling, but nothing’s enough to distract her from feeling bad. She should have treated him and now he’s running around, probably hurting or hurting someone else. She puts her knees up to her chest, the glowing blue bottle dangling in her fingers between them. She says his name, with venom. “Butch.”

Amata’s popping the cap off her own soda and she follows suit, as she voices her worries to her. “Wally decked him. Was probably over his sister…like maybe he finally knows about him and Susie or something, and he seemed off. …he was acting-“Amata’s cutting in nudging her with a friendly shoulder. “-Like an asshole?” Angie’s about to agree right off the bat, but takes a moment to pause…because he hadn’t been as much of an asshole today as usual. Instead she says. “No. I said he seemed _off_ , Amata-naut. Ha.”

She hears Amata make an incredulous noise, as she takes a sip of her Quantum for the first time. She loves the flavor and there’s no other Nuka Cola like it. It takes like energy in a bottle and something old, something special. Amata gets a suspicious tone, prodding her for more information, breaking the quiet. “Ok, _off_ how?” Angie’s not good at expression herself.

One thing’s for certain and that’s the fact, that thinking about Butch for too long, it makes her fidget in her seat.

She knows she’s making a face, as she says it. “He…he was… throwing lines at me- you know? I don’t know…it was all so fast and he- he was probably just playing some kind of trick or-“of course Amata hops on the one topic, that’ll make her squirm even more. “What do you mean _“throwing lines”_? Wait, like what? He was flirting with you?” Angie’s cocking her head and picking on her good naturedly. “Oh you know though, Amata! I mean “ _Hey baby~ Wanna see a real, Tunnel Snake?”_ What else would he have said? _”_ Amata’s shoving her over and she’s laughing at her best friends attempt to topple her over. She honestly doesn’t know **what** he was saying, when he woke up all disoriented.

**_“Hey, what day is it? Uh…Angie?”_ **

**_“What got me here, Sweetheart?”_ **

**_“…I uh…Pipsqueak, if you like that better then. Why am I here?”_ **

Amata’s voice breaks her concentration. “No way! There’s no way he’d try that one on you! Thought he knew better by now and you hate him anyway, right? He really said that? The “Tunnel Snake” spiel?” Angel’s got her hand on the grass from when Amata pushed her, her fingers pressing into the ground a little harder. She’s shaking her head and feeling…bothered by him even when he’s not around. “No, that’s not how he…” She stops to take in a breath, because saying what she does…frustrates her, because it’s actually the truth. “And I don’t **hate** him. I mean he’s a royal jackass, but…” When Amata’s eyebrows raise in surprise, it makes her flustered.

She growls, unable to look her in the eye, cutting off the thought as fast as she’s had it.  “-he just never said anything like it before to me. That’s all.” Amata’s huffing at her, crossing her arms and glaring towards the diner. “Well, now you’re just being vague.” Evangeline’s got her knees to her chest again, a little frustrated by the interrogation, her Quantum dangling between her fingers again. Angie’s staring at the diner too, thinking hard about whether she should hunt him down or not. She’s also thinking about Susie Mack’s bruises and just exactly _what_ her father knows that she doesn’t.

Deloria’s concussion’s taking a very sharp president over everything else though. Her voice gets a cold edge to it, her morality kicking in. “-He was really turned around too.” She’s genuinely concerned and she hates it, because it’s been awhile since she allowed herself to feel that way…about him. Or rather allowed herself to acknowledge it. She’s talking like she’s back there in the clinic with him, her expression listless. “He asked me what day it was and he was acting like he couldn’t even remember my own name. Kept calling me “Honey” or “Sweetheart” or-

**_“-Angel-baby…”_ **

Her voice catches and she swallows, keeping that one to herself. “-or he just wasn’t calling me “Nosebleed”, you know? It was **off,** Amata!” Amata’s beside her, leaning closer and sounding shocked by her admission, tearing into her snacks while Angie’s drinking her Cola down. “Oh… geez.” Angel’s burying her head in her arms, setting her Quantum down beside her and Amata’s reading her mind. “Well…you think you should go find him, before he kills over? Or like…has an aneurism? Being nice sounds _serious_ alright.” Angie takes a peak out of the corner of her eye, only to see Amata grinning. She’s not being serious.

She’s sighing, growling in frustration, as Amata’s poking her face with her finger, getting a joking tone to her. “What if he _keeps_ being nice? What if it’s infectious?” She swats her hand away, complaining and genuinely concerned. “Would you be serious? He wasn’t just being **nice** he was-“Amata’s waving her hand, interrupting her. “I know, I know. He was **off**.” Amata sighs, leaning away and turning her eyes on the corner, which Christine’s girls are probably all sitting in. Angel just sits there, feeling worse by the second.

When Amata says something, which makes her heart sink and her nerves frayed. “You’re blushing.” She is not. Evangeline turns to her friend snapping, almost crushing her cakes under her palm, when she leans over on the grass towards her. “If my face is red, it’s because the thought of him being the first patient, which I’ve ever had **die** on me, just pisses me off!” Amata’s pressing her for information again, with a sly smile. “So what did he say to you? You know… to make you so mad?” Well that was easy! He woke up on the table and he was looking at her and he was just standing too close…and…

The more Angie thought of it…not a damn thing really.

That’s what pissed her off the most. Instead of saying that however, she’s bristling, narrowing her eyes at her friend briefly. She snatches up one of her cakes and tears into the packaging a little over zealously. Grumbling the words before she takes a large bite. “Just looking at him burns me up. He doesn’t even have to say a word and he’s an eyesore. You just know he’s thinking something arrogant, no matter what he’s doing.” Amata doesn’t say much, she just snorts like she doesn’t believe her explanation.

Then, they’re just eating their lunch in companionable silence.

They hear the chime of the clock signaling for everyone to go back to work. Amata winces and Evangeline groans. They’d wasted more time arguing with Susie, that she’d thought. She’s cursing, balling up the empty package and shoving it into her vault suit’s pocket. “Damn it, Deloria…”Amata’s patting her on the back, a kind voice over the chime of the daily grind. “Wow, time just flew by. Hey! I’ll walk you over.”

She’s looking at her Pipboy, the numbers jumping out at her annoyingly. 5:02pm. She’s somehow 2 minutes late, even though the chime only **just** rang. She hands her mostly drank bottle of Quantum to Amata, keeping her promise to share and thanking her for her company. “Thanks, really. I’d be lonely without you. Might even get lost on the way back!” She’s stuffing the uneaten half of her lunch into her other pocket, pushing up off the ground, a little perk in her step.

Amata leaves her empty trash without much thought, reaching out a hand up to her. Angie laughs at her, a pathetic look on her face, as she motions for her to pull her up. “You know, since your legs are broken, I guess I **should** take you in with me.” Angie clasps her hand, her palm catching Amata’s and their bond, a pleasant diversion. Amata’s fairly light to pull up and lighthearted, as she throws an arm around her, teasing. “Well, treating me, must be a lot better than playing doctor with, **Butch**? Right?”

Angie doesn’t miss a beat, when they start walking together down the hill. “ **Having** a broken leg would be better.” She’s thankful for the weight of Amata’s arm around her, just plain happy to have one good friend to pal around with. Her thoughts turn to their empty things, when one particular thought, has her voicing it. “Aren’t you worried your father will find out? You know…breaking your “diet”?” Amata seems to go quiet as they cross the field again. She answers her, with a somewhat defiant and yet inherently sad tone. “Who’s going to tell him? Besides, what could **he** do? He barely pays attention anyway…”

Angel doesn’t know what to say, till they reach the door leading back towards the halls. She wraps her arm around her friend’s waist, gives her a squeeze and rests her head on her collarbone, her voice lacking humor. “ **I** pay attention. If that makes it any better.” Amata’s face goes…stoic. Before she mutters it wryly. “Not really…” Then she’s squeezing her back, with a small smile. “But the thought counts right?”

She’s walking arm and arm with Amata up the corridor then, the clinic dead ahead after a turn or two. They’re laughing at some silly joke, when they both freeze at the sight of who’s walking out of the clinic. The Overseer’s tone is fill with both barely masked distain and hallow concern. “There you are, Amata! …and Mrs. Blackwell. You’re 10 minutes late for your shift. I do hope you’re both… keeping out of trouble.” Evangeline’s never understood why the Overseer’s always talked down his nose at her. He does it with her father too.

It never escapes her notice and Mr. Almodovar always seems, like he’s barely trying to hide it anymore. Amata’s letting her arm fall off of her, her voice sullen. “Yes, Dad. We’re fine.” Evangeline smiles sweetly, not feeling very sweet at all. “Yes, Overseer. I’d think being beside me, would be the safest place for her to be, excluding my father. I am a trained physician after all.” The Overseer’s returning smile, feels more like a sneer, his tone lacking amusement. “Hardly… you’ve only just become a Medical Intern. It’s an awfully presumptuous thing to say. Youthful arrogance perhaps?”

Angel feels her jaw clench, her smile fanged. “Years of practice. I’ve been reading my father’s journals for quite some time.” Amata whines at her father with gritted teeth, giving him a pleading look. “Dad…” The Overseer’s hands are folded behind his back, his false smile falling for a moment, as he looks to his daughter. It returns with a veiled insult that makes Evangeline’s blood boil. “As capable as your father is, I do hope you’ve read more…reliable material. Children are a mirror of their parents and all. Perhaps you should practice humility. You can never be too well read.” Angie’s hands clench at her side, her teeth gritted tightly.

It’s one thing to insult her and another, to insult her father’s work. It’s common knowledge that her father is the reason, why the medical section in the library has grown so vastly. Which the Overseer pompously discards as, “Anonymously Donated Medical Notes” and nothing more. Everyone knows her father’s work by now and the Overseer, would have a lot of bodies on his hands without him. She has to bite her tongue to keep from saying something that would get her into trouble.

Amata’s stepping in, comforting her and standing up to her father for once. “What’s anonymously donating valuable personal research, if not humble?” The Overseer’s puffed up chest deflates, as he turns on his heel, wishing her goodbye and commanding his daughter back to him. “Pride comes before the fall Mrs. Blackwell. …Come along, Amata!” When the tyrant’s out of ear shot, Angie’s mocking him quietly into her friend’s ear, in a nasally tone. _“Pride comes before the fall Mrs. Blackwell. Ladi Ladi La!”_ Her friend gives her a quick hug, a cheeky snort, and a whispered apology. “I’m so sorry.” Angel just hugs her back and before she sends her off, she gives Amata some peace of mind. “He’s right you know.”

Amata’s giving her a quizzical look, as her father calls loudly for her again. Just as she turns to leave, Angie lets her go with a wry smile. “You can **never** be too well read.” She watches her friend’s back and her smile vanishes the further she goes. She’s left alone in front of the clinic, actually a little grateful to return to work. At least the mundane-ness of paperwork is as relaxing as it is boring. She’s walking through the doors and letting her shoulders sag a bit.

There’s no one in the front half of the clinic and she’s grateful for that, because she could use some quiet time to herself. When she makes her way back into the inner exam room, the door opens up and there’s her father. Her father’s reviewing prescriptions, jotting down notes, pouring himself into his work. She makes out her father’s muttering, his focus entirely on his notes. “Let’s see… upping the dosage should be ideal… then for her… two more weeks of Amoxicillin, she’ll be right as rain…” She’d been eager to be alone, however watching him work, makes her smile.

She leans against the doorframe, clearing her throat. Her father doesn’t even have to look up, as he smiles warmly, affection laced in his tone. “There you are, Angel. How’s my favorite intern?” She’s sighing, walking around to lean on her father’s desk. She leans against it, her eyes skimming over the papers absently. “How’d you know it was me?” Her father’s pen stops moving, as his attention falls fully onto her, playfully superior. “A father just knows, love. …I know everything, you know.”

She’s scoffing, looking up at him under her lashes, happy to banter. “Mhm, I’m sure. …Well, I know when you’re pulling my leg.” There’s a glint of cunning in her father’s eyes, as he gets up to file away his work, full of jest. “Am I?” She hums, her smile slipping off her mouth, replaying the Overseer’s words in her mind, she bites out her displeasure. “More than our…over grown… radroach of an Overseer…” Her father closes the file cabinet and predictably scolds her. “Evangeline, you shouldn’t say things like that.”

She’s grumbling wryly, walking around to sit in her father’s chair. “Even if it’s true?” Her father’s striding across the room, placing both of his palms on the desk, while leaning closer to her. He’s almost severe enough to make her shrink as he says it. “Don’t let anyone hear you talk like that. It’s better to trust the people in charge. The Overseer knows what he’s doing.” She exchanges a staring contest with him, before his shoulders sag with a sigh. Then, with a conspiratorial wink, he chuckles. “I’ll admit, he “bugs” me too sometimes, Sweetheart.”

She’s scowling, pouting. “What did he want?” Her father seems to go quiet, humming in thought, as he pushes off the table. Clearing his throat, as he walks toward the sink to wash his hands, he reluctantly opens up to her. “Something about Amata, not getting the best nutritional supplements. Which ended in me having to give a rather fruitless explanation, on what actual nutrition really is.” Her father’s frustration shines through for a brief moment, in the way he wrings his hands dry on the nearby wash cloth. The way he growls it under his breath. “Being skinnier, is not the same as being healthier…”

Angel’s ears perk up and her heart pangs for her friend, her voice low, worried. “Amata mentioned something like that today… Is he **starving** her?” Her father says it a bit coldly. “Not according to him.” Angie’s soft reply, betraying the care within her. “And you? What do you say?” Her father looks tired, as he looks her way. He gives her a sincere look of sorrow and she already knows, that in everything, it’s the Overseer’s opinion that is the final say.

Which her father confirms a moment later, picking up her earlier abandoned clipboard. “There’s only so much I can do, Angel… I’m sure she’ll be alright.” Angie wants to yell at him, but she knows it’s not his fault. It’s just the way things are. She does know, that she’ll be sneaking Amata more than just a sip of her Quantum in the future. Her father, being an expert at diversion, brings up their latest patient and her most frequent pain in the ass. “I see you’ve discharged Mr. Deloria.”

With an involuntary wince, she’s answering her father sharply. “Yes. I did.” Her father hums, thoughtful as he brings the Snake’s chart over. He’s pointing to a blank spot on the report, which has her feeling guilty. He’s putting her on the spot then. “Really? Well, what’s this here then?” Her shoulders fall and her inner child comes out. “…Well, Dad. I think that’s what they call paper.”

Her father’s direct with her then, which results her downtrodden groan. “You forgot to log it.” She takes the board and the pen off her father’s desk, estimating the time that she’d left him here…with what was surely a severe head injury. She’s about to just let it go… when her conscience gets the better of her. She’s biting her lip and saying it with a guilty kind of directness. “I may have… let him walk out… in what might be called… “Questionable” condition.” Her father’s disapproving tone, is far worse than any kind of tantrum, someone less patient might have thrown. “Evangeline…”

She’s getting defensive then, bristled. “I stood over him all night and he walked out of here fine…ok, I might have left him standing here without really checking…” Her father’s voice is both wise and disapproving. “…You shouldn’t let that boy get to you. I do love you and I understand, why you might have walked away from him… Though, being the future vault physician-” She cuts him off, exasperated more with Deloria than with her father, her tone coming out terse. “-Being the vault physician means treating everyone who comes in. Whether they make it easy or not, it’s my job to treat them fairly.” Her father blinks and sighs, a little frustrated with her. There’s a long pause between them, before he gives her an empathic look and she deflates.

She’s running her fingers through her hair, frustrated with herself. “-You know I just told someone, someone **today** , that I don’t let grudges keep me from my work? God…but he- he just…” Her father’s coming up besides her putting a kind hand on her shoulder. Her father’s not a big man, but he’s always had kind and steady hands. It’s what makes him such a good doctor and an even better father. She’s already angry enough at both herself and Deloria, because she really did let her feelings, keep her from doing the best she could for him.

Her father’s words offer comfort to her. “It’s alright, Sweetheart. Truth be told, that boy’s skull is so thick, I’m certain he’ll pull through. …You know I only want what’s best for you. To be strong. Your happiness is mine, Angel.” Despite her feelings, she’s saying it with conviction. “Maybe I should go hunt him down, just in case.” Her father’s asking her what she’s not quite sure of. “Well, I think you’re giving yourself less credit than you deserve. Were there immediate flags, anything serious? Bleeding ears? Noticeable hives?” She goes over their encounter in her head and honestly, isn’t sure anymore.

She just knows he wasn’t himself and that’s basically what she says, a bit wryly. “I think he might have a concussion…but nothing like that, no.” Her father’s humming in acknowledgement and with a stern tone, he’s letting her off the hook. “…well that boy will be back in here I’m sure and if he was able to walk out on his own, a bruised ego was probably all he left with. Honestly, Darling? I know he can be… a bit obnoxious –but next time you see him, examine him carefully!” She’s nodding her head sheepishly. “Yes… it’s not worth this gnawing feeling of uncertainty in my stomach. That might just be old vending machine food though.” Her father shakes her shoulder affectionately, dropping down to kiss the top of her head. His voice warm, as he makes to change the papers on the exam table. “Good girl. Now, I believe you were filing away volumes H through I, of 101’s medical records?”

Sure enough, laying untouched off to the side, is a pile of what Angie’s beginning to assume, is a pile of useless paperwork. Which she couldn’t help but complain over. “Most of the people these belong to are long dead…” She’s raising her eyebrow, as she pick up where she’d left off, but not without a tired attempt at humor. “…maybe I should go hunt Butch down after all…” Her father chuckles, as he moves towards where the larger front room is. “Nice try.” He’s opening the blinds on the window behind his desk and then moving, to change the sheets on all the unmade beds beyond it.

She finds it easy to get lost in the many records at her disposal. As she makes notes of whose dead and who’s still living, sometimes she wonders about the lives of the dead ones. Who they were and what they did? Though, even as she works, Deloria’s still on her mind and as the hours tick down, she’s still worried about him. She wishes she didn’t care at all, especially over his own dumb mistakes.

If he didn’t fight so much, he wouldn’t have gotten knocked out yesterday.

It’s around 11 o’ clock, when her father decides to send her home. Honestly, she knows her father doesn’t need her working for him and if anything, she’s fairly sure it’s just to keep her busy. Sometimes, she feels as if she’s a bottle of wasted potential, but other times? Other times, she’s just grateful, that she can be with her father for most of the day. The hallway lights have dimmed and curfew’s been called a while ago, but it only just dawns on her when the clinic is far behind her.

She’s afraid of the dark. It has her walking a little faster towards home, a jittery rush in her veins. Her hands are shoved in her pockets and the day has been a collection of events, which have pushed down onto her brain like a ton of bricks. Susie’s bruises, Amata’s starvation diet, and Deloria’s concussion. Today was a bit overwhelming and she’s looking forward to just hitting her mattress.

She feels as though she’s made enough clinical errors for one day.

However, as she rounds the corner… she thinks of the burger, that she never got to order from Andy. Her feet are at a fast pace, but the corridor leading towards the diner is coming up soon. She could either eat at home…or sneak into the diner late tonight and get Andy to make her something. Two roads diverging into two very different outcomes. She makes the choice, only when it’s almost too late to decide.

She feels her heart skip, when the florescent lights in front of her, flicker eerily. She’s thinking to herself, tired and edgy. ‘ _It’s like a horror movie… of course they’d flicker only once I was looking.’_ She’s not sure when she starts smiling, but it’s a rush to be out this late. The shadows kind of feel like they’re jumping at her and its both terrifying to her…but also exciting. When her eyes land on the diner’s door, her feet slow when she see it.

There’s a dim light behind the closed shades, as if someone’s messing around with the jukebox.

Just another obstacle in an otherwise difficult day. She’s standing there, curious…till her stomach pangs and she decides to walk inside. When the doors open however, her blood runs cold. She’s been thinking of the jerk all day and low and behold, the outline of his back, even if he wasn’t wearing that damn jacket, she knew his back well enough anywhere. When the diner door shuts behind her, she’s so jumpy that it actually startles her.

He’s in nothing but his jeans, his boots tied haphazardly, and his bare back is an oddly familiar sight. To see him without his jacket or without a perpetual aura of pride, has her rattled. He’s apparently, attempting to get the jukebox which has been broken by his own hand for years, to work again. Her eyes flicker to Andy behind the grill, floating there quietly. She’s about ready to open her mouth, ignore Deloria, and simply order, but she couldn’t right then, even if she wanted to.

Then…music’s coming out of the jukebox, which he’s been fiddling with and he’s turning around, aware of her then. She’s not sure who she’s really looking at anymore, because… she must be seeing things, because he looks a lot scarier than he’s ever appeared. His dark hair’s messy, like he didn’t bother to slick it up before leaving his house and he’s…he’s humming to Dean Martin, casually stuffing a grease rag into his back pocket. The dim light of the jukebox, spills out across the empty diner, creating a very lonely kind of mood in the place and a rather somber one. She’s debating whether or not she should just turn right around and run back home, but… like hell would she ever give him the satisfaction.

She’s here for a good meal, whether he has anything to say about it or not.

Though, when he finally addresses her in the darkness, the two of them alone in the yellow hue of the jukebox’s glow, it’s not him talking. It can’t be. His smile’s warmer than anything she’s ever watched him give to anyone and it actually gets to her. He gets to her in a way, which she knows he shouldn’t be. His voice rolls softly through the air, like hot coals in a furnace and she’s not seeing the same person, which she’s seen all her life. “Awe shit, Angie, hey there…? …Didn’t plan on seeing you here. It’s late, Pipsqueak…you hungry or something? …you probably don’t wanna see me though, huh? You look real tired, doncha…” She’s not sure how to even respond, because he’s just not… that’s not Deloria talking and if it was, he’s not talking to _her_ that way.

Deloria would have sneered and told her to get lost, called her a shrimp. Deloria would have chased her off or said something nasty, before locking her out of the diner. Deloria…Deloria’s not as ugly in this dim lightning, especially with that old world music flowing, and that pearly white disarming grin. The moment her heart tries to patter on her, she kills the feeling dead. Deloria’s either got a head injury, or he’s doing something unspeakably awful.

He’s being too damn **nice** to her and it couldn’t be good…

…and she was going to get to the bottom of it, because out of everything today, **he** had been weighing on her mind the most. She likes to think, that she’s a good person or at least, that she does the best she can to help people. This guy however, always brings out the worst in her. He’s selfish and loud, leering at all the girls and treating her like she’s not one at all. She’s just stuck standing there, alone with him and he’s asking her if she’s **hungry**.

In that moment…the dark is the thing that scares her the least, because Butch Deloria being alone with her?

It was a lot less scary, when he was being an asshole, when he was fully dressed and when he was breaking the jukebox, instead of piecing it back together.

**((TBC))**


	5. The Jukebox Plays Her Heart Like A Broken Record

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okie, so I'm gunning for a chapter a week! I hope you guys enjoy this story! I am eternally thankful for your support and any comments/kudos I receive!
> 
> Disclaimer: I own nothing~ Except for Angel's personality.

**A/N I Wanna Be Yours (Slightly Slower Version) – Arctic Monkeys, Ain’t That a Kick in the Head – Dean Martin, Tears on my Pillow – Little Anthony and the Imperials, Don’t Say Goodnight – The Bobbettes**

_Vision_ _blurred by sleep, strained muscles aching, a dirty mattress on the ground._

_Rain. He’s opening his eyes to a rusty, dusty window. He smells dust and the rain smells, unlike anything he’s ever smelled before. The rain is pouring down outside, in the afternoon light. A hue of sickly yellow light, which he’s vacantly staring at through the busted up window, that he’s waking to._

_The sound of water on steel. The roof must be made of steel. The walls are made of wood, patchy and burnt, with ancient scorching to them, black from 200 year old bomb fire. His chest is heavy with exhaustion, the good kind of for a change. His body sunk deep into the place he’s lying in._

_He’s on his side, his breath leaving him hushed and quiet. He feels a slight weight on his arm. He sees blonde hair spilling across it, feeling his heartbeat slowing in time, to the rising and falling ribcage, of the naked woman he’s curled behind. Restful. The air stained with a lack of energy, which makes it restful._

_Draining his life away, into inevitable peace._

_He drags his fingertips on the rise of her hip, his lips parted like he’s thirsty suddenly and not another soul for miles around. It’s…some shack on the way back home. Tracing the soft flesh outline against his hard and overworked one with his fingers, brushing her pretty hair off her neck, drawn by the color, seduced by how defenseless she is. His breath shudders with a weight of emotions that crush his lungs, making her stir, when it ghosts over the shell of her ear. His tongue and teeth on the column of her throat, biting her with a cruel kind of affection, that hurts so…fucking good._

_Her moan breaks his heart, slinking into his mind like poison, sweet venom. He tangles her hair in his fingers and breaths deep of her lemons and home sweet home ambrosia. Bittersweet in his mouth, foggy awareness infecting him, when she’s got him on his back, pinned to this dirty, ancient mattress, which they’ve fallen into. Her gentle fingers curled around his wrists, pressing them down, pushing him into the ground. Her kisses wet, dirty, cleansing like fresh rain on dead soil and he’s buried himself inside her body, without urgency._

_They’ve earned one secret moment, without the rush of survival at their backs._

_Her hips a welcome into lust drunk distraction, her breath shared with him, as she steals it away. She’s always in control, always in charge, and he used to want those things too, to be in constant security…now he just wants her and she just loves giving him what he wants lately. He wants to bang her back against long dead DC brick walls, he wants her light nail marks down his back, her approving voice, “Yes…yes, do it just like that…”, he wants to hit her just right- to drive her insane. He wants to be owned by her, his heart spilled inside her hands, so lost in her that she’ll bring him to his knees. He wants to lie with her and make love lazily, in the dim afternoon light, her face in his hands…and the sound of heavy rain, pattering down like bullets in a shower._

_The only sound inside the shack, other than how they breathe, as they’re downing in each other’s hands. No words, no one else, nothing. Just her skin, her arms around him, his body embraced inside the heat and slickness of her own. He wants to get lost there, in their shack removed from everything, somewhere no one else knows. Then, as he’s watching her pretty face twist up with a powerful release, he’s falling away from her and he can’t hold on to her fast enough._

_Sinking into the mattress, spiraling down, down, down, the walls replaced by black and nothing inside a funnel. He screams, but there is no sound. He reaches for her, naked and begging her to stay, but she’s just helplessly watching above him, watching him fall down into the well, that’s opened up to swallow him. He hears the sound of glass shattering, as the rains patter, becomes bullets against concrete walls and he sees her, up there on the ledge of the pit leaning forward, as the impact breaks her spine. He sinks into the hole beneath the mattress, watches as red blossoms from between her breasts, his heart tearing him up inside._

_He can’t get out and he can’t crawl up. He’s clawing in the darkness, trying to reach her, hearing bombs and falling Helibirds, war and violence. It’s a nightmare. He wants to keep her safe, he wants to be safe, he just wants that one fucking moment to last! HE JUST WANTS IT TO LAST ONE MORE MOMENT?! WHY CAN’T IT LAST-_

-He bolts up awake, his heart pounding, sweat on his brow, his hands clutching empty sheets.

And he is alone. No rain. No sound besides his own panicked breathing and the ticking of a clock. His heart hammering inside him.

Butch runs his fingers through his hair, breathing heavily out of his nose, the sheets pooled in his lap. He’s greeted by his organized, yet lightly cluttered dresser ahead of him, bobble-head at the center of it all, the comics, liquor bottles and assorted junk. It’s dark, but he knows where he is. He’s waking up to another dream. He swallows thickly, letting the adrenaline subside, before he lies back down, drained.

A Vault-Tec ceiling above him. His mattress is…too comfortable. Though, after a moment, he knows it’s not his old, damn near brand new mattress that won’t let him sleep. His sheets are clean and as he turns on his side, he shuts his eyes, gathering them up into his hands and smells his own cologne on them. It’s not her scent there anymore alongside it and it hits him a little hurtfully.

He’s facing his bedside table, his thoughts collecting themselves. ‘ _Where the hell do I go…from here?’_ As far as he knows, his only hope, is resting in the chip inside his drawer with lost-future, past future, hurt your brain kind of technology written onto it. He’s remembering some of the science behind it and he knows his math pretty well… but he’s not a Poindexter like her and he’s afraid of what could happen, if he screws things up. She had theories about time-travel that were as potentially accurate, as they were insane, but in the end…no one really knew what would happen if they tried to change the past, not even The Enclave. He fell asleep, tearing his hair out over this…he’s not sure for how long ago.

He’s reaching for his Pipboy and the time has him laughing at himself.

He’s had about 2 hours of sleep and he’s wide awake now. He’s recalling his nightmare and feeling sour over it. _‘… For real? Geez, can’t ever let myself relax, can I? …Christ. “Never safe” even in your own damn bed, huh? Tch, you drilled that into me good, didn’t you woman?’_ He’d missed the chatter from Vault Security, though…there’s not a sound tonight, not even through the echoes of the ventilation system. He’s missing the howl of the wind instead now and thinking about…tomorrow. He gets up, straps his Pipboy onto his bare arm, and then cracks his neck, on the edge of his bed.

He’s barefoot and his feet feel the cold of the floor like a jolt of harsh reality. He’s got no idea what he’s doing. He just knows that getting James involved, is probably the best answer. He was never really the leader like she was… he feels at a loss without her. He’s always been kind of lost without her.

He slides open the drawer near him with a heavy sigh and his shoulders untighten, when he sees the proof of his story again. The round little circuitry, sitting atop a birthday card that he’s going to give to her, that much he knows for sure. He’s thinking about waking up to her face and the memory of how they used to be. He sighs, feeling frustrated, rubbing the back of his neck.

He wonders how he’s going to gain her trust again or if there will be consequences, if he diverges from the path they’d taken once before. She was one tough cookie at the clinic and he didn’t know what to do with himself now, now that he was alone with his inner demons. He knew what he wanted to do, but he didn’t know if he should do it… he’s hopping up out of bed, laughing at himself again, feeling a lightness in his chest while thinking of her young face. She’s so cute now and it just makes him wanna tease her a little. He wants to make her laugh and share a milkshake with her.

He wants to do childish things and be her sweetheart. His legs are restless and there’s no way he can get back to sleep, not anymore. He drags himself over to his dresser and goes digging for a pair of jeans. He stops, coming face to face with a little folded piece of paper resting on his pants. He knows it looks familiar, but he can’t place it, till he’s picking it up out of sheer curiosity.

He groans softly, unfolding the square, seeing very familiar cursive. Christine’s handwriting and Susie’s confession, a note that had impacted his life, which he’d forgotten; the girl’s team effort to get him to go steady with the youngest Mack sibling. _“Susie-Q’s got her eyes on you. You feel like dancing tonight, Butch? Just you and her? The diner at 6? Think about it won’t you, Butchie?”_ His heart sinks a little, when it dawns on him…he’s dating Susie right now, he’s fairly certain. He reads over the words a few times, his face probably somber, ancient history getting dug up. Neither of them really had _eyes_ for each other…just place holders in the end.

He smiles fondly, remembering how she’d always tug on his jacket sleeve when they were kids. Tagging along with him and his boys, she’d strut just as tall as any Tunnel Snake he knew. Susie-Q had the venom of a viper, but she was… she was different when they were alone. They both were. He was too selfish to really care and she just liked pretending she was in love with him, but he knew why she’d always come over to his house.

Before the girls made their own little nameless gang around age 12, Susie, Wally, Christine, Paul, Little Monica, and him were always over at The Kendal’s dorm. Susie told him secrets, like how Wally still wet the bed at 11 or how her mom snuck whiskey during the Overseer’s Speeches. Nothing ever changed and Susie’s problems weren’t ever on the forefront of his mind. He knew secrets about her too. He knew why her neck and wrists were bruised so often and his heart tries to clench on him.

He should have protected her, made some kind of stand or just…he’d used her and she’d used him, but nothing useful ever came out of it for either of them.

She didn’t want to go home and she couldn’t go anywhere else, so when things were bad for her at home, she’d stop by if he told her she could. They’d kiss on his couch, but in the end his heart wasn’t really in it and after an hour, she’d break away and just… he’s almost more sure of it, more than ever, that all she’d really wanted, was for someone to talk to, who’d hold her…who wouldn’t hurt her. He’s scowling, because he wasn’t very fair to her and he wasn’t very observant either. He wasn’t the friend he should have been and he… he wishes he would have let her go on to Gomez a lot sooner, because The Freak was actually really good to her in the end. He’s setting the note back in his dresser, putting Susie on the back burner, but he knows that this time… he’s not going to be her _first_ time and he’s not going to use her, like she wanted him to.

He’s probably going to end up making enemies and stepping on a few egos too. He’s not sure what’s going to happen when he faces Wally, but he’s not a kid anymore and he can’t act like it. He’s not going to take Wally’s bullshit, because betrayal makes you biased and even though he may look 17? He’s pretty sure he’s earned some respect to go along with his blood, sweat, and balls.

Getting lip from Mack or anyone down here without any grit or wrinkle to them, is going to have him all kinds of “rubbed the wrong way”. He lets his mind shut off and the urge to go wash dishes, is at an all-time high inside him. He guesses, that he has an itch to fix things or clean up, because of all the things he can’t put back into order. Angie found it endearing and worried, but she liked this way of coping more than she liked him drinking. He was always trying to fix shit, that couldn’t be pieced back together the way it was, ever again.

He pulls out some jeans that might one day be the only pair, he’ll have to his name. He scowls a little, tired, head still reeling from his restless sleep, yet he’s tugging his pants on, because he’s got to move around now. He just can’t sit still and do nothing tonight. He feels guilty, about how tomorrow, he’s going to have to fix things with Susie, by breaking things with her. He can’t pretend to love her like she wants him to, not now.

He buttons up his jeans and makes his way out into the dark hallway of his childhood home. His mind wanders to chores, leaky pipes and Walter paying him for a job well-done. He trips on a liquor bottle, cursing, as it clatters off to the side, but it doesn’t break. He grips the wall for balance, sleepily rubbing his eyes and feeling a little pissy about being so clumsy. He sighs, pushes off the wall and then picks up the empty bottle, trudging off past his mother’s closed door.

The house is dead silent. He doesn’t know how to feel about it either. He just sees the kitchen sink and tosses the bottle into the garbage, going through a work list that just doesn’t really apply here. _‘Pick up Ma’s garbage, salvage it for- …sweep the dust off the-…dishes, counters, pipes under the sink. Rivet might have some new valves-‘_ He’s frozen at the sink, his hands on the counter on either side of the stainless-steel, his mother having already done the dishes and leaving him with nothing to focus on. The thoughts were automatic to him, if not a little forced, because it was easier to worry over nothing, instead of the war inside his skull, which he now had to face alone. He turns the handle for cold and cups his hands to catch it.

He smiles a little, because the water is actually _really_ cold. It’s a luxury that you didn’t get in a world of desert heat and Wasteland. He’s spent most of his recent years, cleaning up other people’s messes, because of her. Trying to be better to her, do more for her and their kid. To fix what he’d done when they were just The Snake and The Nosebleed, to each other.

He splashes the cold water on his face, thinking of all the things he’s broken. He’d broken a lot of shit. Hearts, faces, annoying little inventions she’d throw at him to mess around with, just to see if he could put them back together for fun. He tucks his head under the water and stares into the drain, his face relaxed, and his mother popping into his mind again in the process. He might wake her up if he moved around in the house too much…and he needed time to compose himself.

There wasn’t much to do, as far as he could tell anyway.

He turns off the water flow with a flick of his wrist, running his other hand through his wet hair. Shaking the water out and shaking his thoughts around. His mind darts to something a out of place, but he’s so used to thinking about her, he can’t help it. He stands up straight, thinking about…how he’d busted up the Jukebox in the diner time and time again…and how Angie couldn’t use it on her birthday or really anyone for that matter. He scoffs at himself, but his smile drips off, because the sound is sad.

He really did that alright, petty shit with no real reason for it. He’d messed with Andy’s voice box and made him curse. He’d find good liquor and porno mags behind INACCESSABLE doors, stash them into people’s lockers just to see them get caught and then laugh about it. He’d use intercoms to eavesdrop on Security’s conversations, just to mess with them. He’d been damn good at breaking things.

He broke things because he was pent up, angry, and broken himself, because it was easier. Easier to just take out all the “pissed off” he kept inside, on other people. He was real good at blaming other people for his fuck ups or even for the things that weren’t anyone’s fault at all. He kicked his own ass over it too, about being a bastard and a screw up. No one ever knew that though…no one except him and his wife.

He’s humming to himself, wondering about that Jukebox again, not sure if it’s broken now or not. Thinking about not wanting to wake his mother up and feeling down about the lack of work to be done around the house. He’s scanning the drawers around him now, his eyes narrowed, an idea brewing in him. He starts opening and shutting drawers, cabinets, anything that might hold his old tool belt. He shuffles to the right and turns about face, after looking through every corner of their small kitchen.

He’s scowling, the lack of sleep weighing on him, but he’s too restless to want to lay back down tonight. He’s got plenty to be worried over and he’s _worried_ alright. He walks across the small space leading out of the kitchen counters, finding his way across their living room. Feeling the urge to sink into the couch, he makes a brisk stride over to it. He turns on his heel and sits heavily, thankful it’s not leather or else, it’d be sticking to his skin if it were.

He felt stuck enough as it was. He spreads his arms out wide along the back and tilts his head back. It shouldn’t surprise him to see Vault-Tec steel again, but for a fleeting moment, he half expected to see the rafters of their home in Megaton. His eyes ghost over the dark room, the only light, a dim pilot over the stove that’s to the left of the sink. He’s eyes go left, but his mind is thinking about making himself busy.

He registers their kitchen table, steel and plastic, but at the sight of his needlework, he’s feeling warmer. He couldn’t believe how much he’d missed stitching things up with his mother beside him. He thinks briefly, if he should make something for Angie…for tomorrow. He knows she’d think it was weird as hell, but…she’d like it secretly, if he did, that much he’s sure of. His eyes scan the coffee table beside him, a lonely lamp just within his reach.

He doesn’t want to turn it on though. He kind of likes the dark. Nothing scary in the dark down here, unless you counted him. He’s about to get up, when low and behold, peeking out from under the table, is a wrench. He huffs, feeling the irony of looking just about everywhere, and finding it in the last place his eyes landed.

He’s quick to get on his feet, as he sticks his foot under the couch and drags a full set of tools out from under it with his toes. He knows what project he’s going to put himself into and he’s halfway wishing, that he broke the box, just so he could fix it now. He’s not sure which birthday he’d pulled the wires out on, but he’s pretty sure it wasn’t just her 17th. He picks up the belt, straps it around his hips, and gets lost in thought while he does it. She’s always been beautiful… hasn’t she?

He groans, feeling the weight of the world on his shoulders, thinking of the words to say, to the father of the woman he loves. What could he say? He thinks it instantly, as he’s spotting his work boots and socks, piled haphazardly by the front door. _‘Project Purity. The man’ll have to listen, if I drop that name on him…’_ His palms sweat a little, even thinking about it. His feet feel carpet, where he used to feel wood.

His head rushes to think of his nightmare again, as he walks to gather his boots. Her chest exploding, his heart breaking and he can’t reach her…he can’t fix it. He swallows thickly, leaning his back against the wall, as he tugs on his socks. He puts his mind on Jukebox wiring and soldering, because he’s too tired to want to think about anything else. He’s pulling on his boots now, urgent in a way…even though he’s not rushed in the least.

In fact, everything feels slower. Quieter down here in the dark of 101. He swears he hears a clock ticking, his eyes finding the round, plain looking clock on the wall again. 10:48pm and he’s wide awake. He shuts off his mind, forces things out for a while, and leaves the bigger problems for tomorrow.

He’s got his boots on and his head on too. Right now, he wants nothing more, than to simply fix that Jukebox and play it for Evangeline tomorrow. He wants to enjoy himself, when he’s still got the time to. His lips quirk up into a genuine smile, simple adoring the thought of her face, when he shows up tomorrow to wish her “happy birthday”. His heart swells at the idea of treating her sweet and making her blush.

When he walks out the door, the halls are dimly lit with curfew having been called ages ago. He thinks its funny, because now instead of being desperate for her to look at **him** …he’s pretty sure he’d do anything, just to stare at her face for far longer than he should. Her glaring, pouting, smiling, laughing face. He steps out the door, feeling younger already, not really caring enough to run back into his room to grab a shirt. He’s suddenly giddy, because she’s going to give him a weird look tomorrow.

He still _really_ loves it, whenever she’s got her eyes on him and nothing else.

The hallway lights flicker over him, not nearly as unsettling as a moonlit ghoul infested ruin, so there’s not a lick of fear to the journey. The walk towards the diner is actually peaceful. The worst things around, are probably the radroaches and he’s become practical in what he’s afraid of. He can barely remember a time when he was afraid of them or anything so small. He’s glancing to his left and to his right, listening for security, because he’s got a feeling they wouldn’t want a Tunnel Snake, wandering around after curfew.

He looks down the way that leads to the clinic after making a few turns. He wonders if she’s working late and puts his mind back on the busted up Jukebox, with a little difficulty. He wants to press his thumbs into her shoulders and ease her tired bones, because she’s probably hunched over her Old Man’s desk. She works too hard, not matter what she’s doing. He gets to the darkness of the diner in a few minutes, side stepping Officer Wolfe and a few others patrolling around.

He wouldn’t have been able to keep calm enough to do that once upon a time. He’s grinning to himself, proud of that, proud of his resolve to stay quiet. He’s as silent and deadly as he ever was and the kid in him, is excited about being able to get the drop, on everyone who’d ever tried to lock him in a cell. The doors open to a pitch black room and his heart thuds a little, at the memories shining in through the dim fluorescent lights behind him. Birthdays and cook-offs, club meetings and coming out late after curfew.

Nights like these, where he’d sit inside the utility closet and just drink himself dry or sneak cigarettes when he was trying to quit. He walks in, the door shutting behind him and his sights set on the jukebox that was rarely ever working. Part of him feels like he’s about to give back a piece of this place that he stole and the other, is just a guy who really likes to get his hands dirty. The place is pitch black, so he’s turning on his Pipboy’s light to give himself some visual. The green glow basks him in it, surely casting shadows on his face and the glow has been with him, in sewer tunnels and Deathclaw Nests alike.

The light had gone with him everywhere even in the darkest places.

He walks across the tile and then as he reaches the box, he’s taking out some wire cutters. He takes one look and he knows exactly what to do, with a little thought and memory. So, that’s what he does. With careful hands, he’s prying off the back of it with a screwdriver, fixing wires and feeling a sense of accomplishment, when the light flickers on inside of it. No sound yet, but at least the light’s not burnt out.

It takes him a few minutes, but with a good wrench and a little patience, he was almost done. Some of the wires had gotten hot, sparking and leaving him sweaty from the heat, enough to make him reach for the grease rag in his belt. He was also not too keen on getting himself fried and the rag made for a good precaution against that. He laughs to himself, because if there was one stupid place to die, it would be right here from a wayward electrical current. He’d be getting **fried** in the diner and something about that, he found kind of funny.

He glances at his Pipboy in the process, mostly out of habit. She was always saying, _“Look at your HUD more Deloria, or I swear you’re going to die over it!”_ Early on into their days of Wasteland living, that’s what she’d always say to him, before he made it a habit. So when he sees a little green dot walking towards the diner, he’s pausing and bracing himself. Whoever’s about to come in, well he knows it’s not security, because those would be **red** for him, he’s sure. The dot pauses and he’s about to turn around, but then…he thinks he sees the right wire to touch, to put a little music back into the place.

He hears the door open, but he’s not looking until he…just…one more… twist…

Then… music’s coming out of the jukebox, which he’s been fiddling with and he’s turning around, aware of just who’s walked like a brick to his chest. He’s caught a smile that he can’t wipe off, because she’s staring at him like he’s grown 5 heads. He thinks about how he might have acted when he was in his teens and already, he knows that’s not how he’s going to act now. He couldn’t even if he tried. Seeing her face after the nightmare he’d had tonight?

It’s got him purring out words, that he’d thought might sound more neutral with effort, but his heart has them coming out soft. “Awe shit, Angie, hey there…? …Didn’t plan on seeing you here.” His words come out hot and eager, just so happy to see her standing there, alive and just so…so damn pretty. His eyes flicker to the time on his wrist, as he makes to shove the grease rag he’s holding into his back pocket. His words aren’t carefully chosen, but he’s not on edge around her in the slightest, his voice gentle even, his heart trying to flutter on him. “It’s late, Pipsqueak…you hungry or something?” She hasn’t said a word and he’s pretty sure, it’s because she thinks he’s acting weird.

He may not be the same guy, but he can be himself and still keep things from her. He…hasn’t wanted to think about telling her everything from start to finish. He’s not sure if he should, but he is sure, that right now she wouldn’t trust him to tell her the time. He’s more anxious about telling her about his “concussion”, than even confronting her father with it. He’s making up his mind right then, that he’s not going to put on airs, but he’ll keep the future to himself for a while.

He notices the little bags under her eyes and feels a pang of affection, which only she can get out of him. He says it without thinking again, something kind without pretense.  “…you probably don’t wanna see me though, huh? You look real tired, doncha…” He’s hit by the memories of war tents and her sleeping for days, after staying up for weeks. She’d worked and worked, to save them all and all she’d ever gotten was pain. If he’s useful for one thing, just one thing in his life, it’s going to be taking her pain away and making her smile.

So maybe, he should just treat like he wants to? Give into smiling too much and charming her. He’s liking the idea more and more by the second, as she gets a little nervous around him. He’s flattered, because as much as she must hate him right now… she must hate how much she _likes_ what she’s looking at even more. That’s a secret he was never meant to know right then, but one that he would hear from her in bed, years later.

She’d always loved the way he looked from his goofy smile, to the ridges of his knuckles, from his eyes to his feet. She was **into** him and he could see it now. Through the suspicion and the way she’d crossed her arms defensively, he saw something he wanted to touch against. He may be a better man because of her too, but he’s sure as hell wasn’t always _nice_. He’s wanting to move closer to her, tease her, tug her to him, and say pretty things he couldn’t say to her before they’d grown up.

He wants to be downright mean. He wants to tell her that she looks real cute, when she’s mad at him like this. He wants to make her blush, say perversely sweet things against her temple and poke his fingers into her ribs, just to make her jump. He just wants **her** and the feeling is overwhelming to him suddenly, standing alone with her in the diner after dark. He’s dying to know what she’s thinking, standing over there, so small and so rebellious.

 

She has no idea what’s going through his head, but she sure knows what she’s feeling right now. Annoyed. She feels her stomach growl and it fuels her voice with sharpness. “I shouldn’t have let you walk away today. You have clearly lost your marbles if you think I’m falling for this…whatever you think you’re doing, Deloria.” He cocks his head to the side and she can’t stand it, because it’s almost adorable. Her ears catch the melody behind him and it’s too damn sweet, the way Martin’s voice rolls out of it so giddily.

Butch drops the wrench he was holding back into his belt, feeling playful. He’s being coy now, wanting her to distract him and wanting to build a bridge between them. “…and what am I doing, huh Poindexter?” He’s grinning, his eyes dancing across her silhouette. She’s uncrossing her arms almost defiantly, her chin raised, her voice shaking a little. “You know exactly what you’re doing, you- …what are you doing with those?” He hears her scoff at him, feeling an ache in his chest, when she barks at him snidely. “What? Bored of ruining everything you touch?”

He can’t help the laughter that bubbles up and she feels her eyebrows raise with shock. It’s not mean laughter. If anything, it’s like he’s agreeing with her wholeheartedly, putting his hand on the side of the machine when he speaks up. “Yeah. I really am…” She’s narrowing her eyes and feeling herself asking him point blank. “Why are you in here this late?” His expression is…almost charming.  “Would you believe me… if I said I was fixing this thing up and that I just couldn’t sleep? Nah…you probably wouldn’t? Would you, Smart Mouth? It’s true though.”

His eyes flicker down to the box and then the look he gives her…she’s swallowing hard over it. She feels intimidated by it and that’s a very new kind of feeling for her to have. The box casts a shadow on his face, as his eyes meet hers and his heated grin, toys with her emotions. Using a voice that he’s never used before, that leaves her skin trying to catch on fire. “You know…it’s kinda fun to just touch things…and make ‘em fall apart in my hands. Guess I’m just bored of how things are. With me, with my gang…with you?” She’s glaring at him, deciding that she needs to look at him closer.

She’s not sure if she wants to though, not with that misplaced look on him. He’s talking weird and looking at her ever weirder. She’s not sure how she feels about it. She takes a step towards him, then another, her hackles still raised, turning on her ice as she replies. “I’m doing what I should have done this morning. Examining you. Because you’re not-“he’s pushing off the Jukebox, crossing his arms and cutting her off, irritatingly playful. “-I’m not being an asshole?”

She stops in her tracks, about a foot away from him, noticing how tall he is. How alone they are. As if to tease her, the words of the song stick out in her mind. ‘ _Ain’t that a kick in the head…_ ’ She huffs at him, not sure what to do, because…he’s not being mean, not really. He’s laughing at her then, boyishly and it ticks her off, because he’s not exactly wrong about what he’s saying and that makes it worse. “Yikes, I must be clinical huh, Doc? …Geez. How long do I have you think? ‘Cuz I’d have to be dying to have a conscience… or a change of heart or something, right?”

She’s shaking her head at him, feeling her wall slipping up a little. The wall that keeps him out. The barrier that thickens each time he knocks her books to the ground. She can’t help it, but she’s angry and he always…always makes her into the worst version of herself. “What heart?! You’ve never had one as far as I’ve seen! If you killed over, you’d probably be doing us all a favor anyway!” His lack of reaction…is surely what has her saying it.

The line that both of them, try really hard not to cross. He’s got this lazy smile and she’s got a grudge… she actually hates him in that one fleeting moment. For making her life harder and for sitting there and acting like nothing’s wrong. She wants to hurt him, like he’s hurt her. “Go join your father already!” She freezes up after the stab is out there, the song coming to a halt and his smile’s gone…his reaction predictable.

She feels low and maybe if he hadn’t of mentioned her mother the other day…she wouldn’t have ever said it. They’ve known each other their whole lives…and they both know enough to really make the other bleed inside, if they wanted to. They tend to keep to their usual lines and insults, because there are some things, which just shouldn’t be said. She just couldn’t help it though… if he really thought she’d forget everything so fast, he had another thing coming. Still… she shouldn’t have let him get under her skin.

She…regrets saying it more than she expects. She’s not so hungry anymore and he’s probably about to get real angry, really fast. Her heart tries to stutter and her eyes are stuck on the ground, her legs preparing to run, feeling ashamed of herself. Her voice is quieter, but still sharp if not apologetic. “I…I’m sorry, that was…I shouldn’t have-“Another song starts playing, much softer than the last and it makes the next events, that much more hard hitting.

She expected his fingers on her wrist, but not for him to be so gentle. She expected him to say something, but not with that tone of honest hurt. She expected the opposite of what this…crazy snake suddenly threw at her, out of the blue. Her eyes meet his face and the look he’s giving her is enough to wipe the anger right out of her. His voice curls around her brain and his fingers have never felt…inviting before, not ever, not once. “-No. I’m the one who’s sorry…”

She watches undiscernible things passing through his eyes, which strike her right in the chest. She’s thrown for a loop and can’t say a thing, because…she actually wants to believe him. She smells spiced peaches and knows he’s probably used that grease so much, that even without it, it’s soaked into his skin. It’s actually…she likes how he smells and isn’t put off by the almost, timid grip he’s got on her. Her breath catches, her heart twisting up and her impulse to jerk away is creeping up on her like a rocket.

Till he blinks and his face gets a look to it, that has her lingering. Then, he’s blushing red and he’s the one who’s dropping her wrist, like he’s not sure what he’s doing. His fingers were strong and yet, it’s the way he hadn’t used his strength at all, that had her stuck there. He runs his fingers through his hair, and she…she’s speechless, looking up at him as his voice leaves him in a stutter. “-D-damn…you uh… you don’t know how sorry…” He’s…he’s either gotten really good at lying over night or that’s not a lie at all.

She’s crossing her arms, her voice caught off guard, her words embarrassingly soft. “You’re sorry…?” She blinks and clears her throat, noting how his eyes are dilated, but… but there’s nothing medically off about them. She’s repeating it wryly, with disbelief, trying to quiet her now rebellious heart. “ **You’re** sorry?” She watches him look off to the side and she swears she’s not blushing. She swears his jaw isn’t attractive and that his face isn’t alluring, when he’s not acting tougher than nails towards her.

She’s a liar.

Her voice shakes and her fingers are clutching into her vault suit. “…what for?” She’s confused about a lot of things. Her feelings, his behavior, and if it would change anything at all, even if he was suddenly… _nice_. Her thoughts sullen and a little childish. ‘ _You’ve never been sorry before…’_ She’s hooked on the sound of his breath and painfully aware, that he’s more skin than clothing at the moment.

Her eyes trace wild patterns down the column his neck, his collarbone, his chest, the indents of his belly… and then she tears them back up to safer territory. Just in time to find him watching her, like he knew she was… _examining_ him, alright. His dark hair’s falling into his eyes, lightly curled and soft looking…drawing her unknowingly closer to him. The quiet is too much for her to take, especially with only the music to fill it. His voice isn’t so grating, not right now. “…make a list. More like, what am I **not** sorry for? Ha…”

She’s searching his eyes, opening her mouth to poke at him, because at least teasing him is familiar ground. “…I get it. You’ve been drinking haven’t you?” She expects…she doesn’t know what the hell to expect anymore, but normally, he’d be all hot tempered about a comment like that from her. When the corner of his mouth crooks up, she’s getting heat off of him alright…but it’s a lot different, than the kind she’s gunning for. When his palm comes up to cup her cheek, she can’t even breathe, let alone move. Her back stiffens and his face… he’s _never_ looked at her like that before.

He’s a notorious flirt, when it’s not towards her, but even when he puts on his snake oil charm, there’s no heat behind it. It’s usually clumsy, corny, or goofy…which is sort of attractive in its own way. This though? The words he gives her? They are confident, easy, and actually…work on her. “Maybe I’m just drunk on your poison… you’re cute when you’re trying to take a bite out of me.”

His smile is-“All fangs, no sugar with me…aren’t you, Sweetheart? …aren’t scared I’ll bite you back? Not even a little?” There he goes again, calling her pretty names. She can’t even look at him without feeling her face turn cherry red now and he’s barely a breath away, too close. No one, but them. Her voice catches on her, alarmed. “You don’t scare me one damn bit and you’re not funny….Stop- stop that, Deloria-“He cuts her off, his voice deeper than it should sound, almost like an illusion of maturity. “-Butch. Call me by my name, huh? …don’t worry…I’ll stop. Just can’t help teasing you…”

She feels her skin get goosebumps, a little creeped out, but… more afraid of the part of her, who’s eating up everything he’s saying. His thumb’s tracing one of the bruises under her eyes and she can’t be seeing what she is. There’s affection in his eyes, that runs deeper than it should and his voice holds sincerity laced inside it. “Christ, you work too damn hard… I stay out all night drinking, but I’ve never had shiners like these. …Goody-Two-Shoes.” There’s a huff of a laugh, like he…finds her endearing or something. She’s about to smack his hand away, when she’s getting a face full of his palm.

He gently pushes her away, leaving her stumbling a little. Shocked and reeling, she hears him laughing, that goofy snort of a laugh of his and when she looks up, his eyes are sparkling and he’s…being a jackass again. She’s blushing and feeling like an idiot, but… then he says something that quells her anger, if only a little. “Quit being cute or I’ll eat you up for real. …You’re starving aren’t ya? You didn’t eat lunch, did you?” She’s brushing herself off and her expression is unamused, as she brushes past him, to sit at the bar, being snarky with him. “You’re a real jerk. …and I don’t care if you’re sorry- **or** if you think I’m _cute_. You’re a lying Snake and dumb as dirt, if you think that’ll work on me- …why **do** you care- if I’m hungry or tired, anyway? If you’re not drunk or dying?” He’s gliding over to sit beside her, much to her dismay.

He’s got his arms on the bar and he’s treating her like they’re best friends. He’s grinning at her, without any spite and it eats away at the wall she’s got up for him again. “Said I was bored with how things were, right? …come on. Don’t be that way! I’m trying to make amends here. I fixed the jukebox just for you. Now if that’s not nice then what am I?” She gives him a dirty look, before she calls to Andy to make her the burger, which she’s been wanting all day. “You’re pushing your luck is what you are.” She opens her mouth to order, but before she can pull out her ration coupons, the impossible occurs. The meat head beside her, slams his palm full of his own rations on the table first. He calls out to Andy before her, having the balls to steal her order. “Andy! One cheese burger. Medium rare, extra pickles, easy on the ketchup and make it a double.”

She’s about to snap at him, that she’s been waiting all day for this meal. The steam in her head is about to boil over, till he turns to her and asks her something that leaves her tongue tied. “That’s how you like ‘em right? …figured you could use a double, heh. For a little Pipsqueak like you, your stomach sure growls like mine.” She blinks, because Butch doesn’t even pay for his own friends’ meals. Not without asking for a favor. So that’s it…he wants something from her.

Her eyes follow Andy, as he goes over to the grill, her focus entirely on the shirtless boy, beside her. Her voice border lining on timid. “Why’d you do that…?” He’s got his chin in his palm, looking vacantly at the wall behind the bar, as he answers her without hesitating. “Why not? …that’s what you like on your burger, isn’t it?” She feels her eye twitch, because she doesn’t trust his words. She says so too, digging for the truth. “You want something from me…because there’s no way you’d use your own rations, _when you could just steal mine_.”

There’s bitterness to her tone, which he doesn’t miss. She watches him take a deep breath, like he’s gathering his voice. His chin slips off of his palm and he hangs his head, as a dark, bitter expression has her fear pricking. It’s as potently dangerous as it is brief. His words seem to hint at more, seem to hold something deeper than the straightforward way he says them. “If I could turn back the clock and take it all back... every shitty thing I’ve ever done to you…”

He looks shocked at himself, reigning whatever that was, back in. He turns his head and just looks at her for a second. He’s smiling again, but it’s sadder than it should be. He looks conflicted then, as his face gets a serious look that just doesn’t fit him. His words try to break her resolve to keep him at arm’s length. “I just wanna give back a little, is all. Is that so hard to understand? That maybe I feel guilty? That I’m not made of stone or whatever? I’m sorry, Ange’. I’m sorry for acting like I do… sorry that I haven’t been as honest with you, as I fuckin’ should be.”

She lets him talk, till he’s got his fingers on her arm and her eyes dart to his touch. It’s gentle, invasive but gentle. She’s breathing out her feelings easily, speaking her mind and pulling her arm away from his hold. “And I’m just supposed to believe that you’ve had a crisis’ of conscience? …you were singing a different tune yesterday, Butch- and it still has me wondering if your head’s on straight! If you think I’m just going to be your friend or buy anything you say, because of one apology-“He leans closer and he’s doing something that has her rethinking her own words. He’s respecting her space for once.

His voice urgent, honest… cutting her off. “-I think you’re beautiful and that it pisses me off. So I get too close to you and can’t stand it when you look away, so I push you and push you and act like a dumbass, just to get your eyes back on me.” So direct, that she can’t help but stare at him, letting him go on…because it’s a lot more than friendly. “I think that you’ve got every right to hate me. I kind of hate me, so why wouldn’t you?” Her hands start to shake in her lap, because what he’s saying…sounds like a confession. It sounds…she’s not hating what she’s hearing either. In fact…her hearts racing, because it’s actually really sweet.

He’s never sweet and he never puts himself down, which makes this all the more rare- it makes it matter.

His eyes are locked on hers and he’s talking, like he’s never talked before. “But I’ve never hated you… that you can bet on. –and all I want is a chance to tell you that. To prove it. …to buy you a burger. To say I’m sorry.” He holds there and she can’t believe what he’s saying. He looks as serious as the grave and she’s seeing him in a very different light. She almost…likes this side of him. She’s never been desperate for a boyfriend, but she has always loved the idea of love.

She’d thought about him once like that. A long time ago…maybe before she’d gotten smarter. She didn’t really hate him either… he just always got in her space and made fun of her. It used to hurt, till she decided not to let it and eventually…she almost enjoyed bickering with him sometimes. It brought a little excitement to her day.

It's quiet.

So very quiet. The music’s not even playing on the Jukebox anymore, like the songs have all run out on it. His expression is desperate, till he’s blushing and unable to look her in the eye. She likes the way he blushes, that much she can admit to herself. He runs his fingers through his hair and turns back to the bar, swallowing thickly.

His voice carries a nervous tremor, for the first time since he’d woken up that morning. “…so… so give me a chance. Let me be nice to you… Cuz… I’m tired of pretending I don’t want to be nice to you. You work hard and you deserve…better.” She’s truly at a loss, but the idea of him… of him being honest with her right now and wanting to get closer to her? She wonders if this is the kind of stuff he says to Susie when she’s angry. Her heart hardens over that thought and has her wanting to hide from him. She can handle him being loud, brash and mean…what she can’t deal with, is the heartthrob who’s replaced the big bully, who’d she at least knew halfway well.

Their relationship had always been like a broken record. The same words and the same things on repeat. Easy to read. He’d been easy to follow along to. Easy to just… drown out or bicker with or just… this wasn’t the Tunnel Snake she’d become accustomed to.

The sound of Andy, setting her food in front of her with a clatter, makes her jump almost a foot in the air. “Your burger, Madam!” She’s stuttering, blown away, answering the robot, with everything she’s feeling practically screaming out of her. “-Uhm, yes! Thank you, Andy!” She’s not just thanking him for the food either. She’s compiling her thoughts, rejection on the tip of her tongue, when boyish laughter erupts from beside her. She turns to see him give her a funny kind of look, before he gets up and simply says whatever he wants, it seems. “Think about it? I’m not real good with words. Sleep on it. I mean it though.”

He drops that bomb of words and feelings on her and then, he’s making his escape, not even giving her time to really answer. She’s not even sure why she’s getting up to reach after him, but her body’s moving before her brain catches up with it. She should have just let him go, but…but she’s not sure if she can now. He moves so fast, that she feels it in her soul…she wouldn’t mind if he stayed a little longer. She’s calling after him, showing her hand. “Hey, you can’t just…just go! Where do you think you’re running to?!”

She’s bolting after him, but the brute stops short, forcing her to run into him. Her palms on the warmth of his back, her senses playing havoc with the touch of his skin, before he’s turned on his heel. It happens so fast, she can’t tell how he did it. He’s got her trapped, with both his hand on the bar counter beside her and she’s leaning against it like her legs might give out. He’s got this smile that twists her gut up and his eyes look like a cat, who’s got a mouse in his claws.

His words shake her, because he shouldn’t get to be so brave or outspoken. “Oh, I’m not running from you, Dolly. I’m always running after you, if anything.” It’s like he’s not afraid of her saying “no” to him, not one bit. She doesn’t know how to feel about that, because he’s always been really insecure. She could always see that much, because his self-esteem, showed in everything he did. He fought, drank, and caused a scene everywhere he went, because it always seemed like he had something to prove.

Now… he actually does have something to prove, but it’s like he’s not worried at all.

He shakes his head and her eyes must be as wide as saucers. He pushes off the counter and says something so cocky, so on the nose, that she wants to hit him, because it’s actually like him for once. “…You look scared right now, Angie.” He’s standing tall now, his hands in his pockets and his behavior unpredictable. He shrugs his shoulders and she’s been so knocked on her ass, that any rebuttal she had, was stolen with his next breath of teasing candor. “Was it something I said?” She’s had it, because of course he’s making it a joke.

She stomps her foot and she’s so riled, she doesn’t have words. She smacks his chest with the back of her hand and he just cracks up at it, looking too pretty for his own good. Her teeth gritted, she’s growling at him, because this is all a game to him, she’s betting. “You…you…” She wants to call him mean names, but he doesn’t let her. He’s grinning ear to ear and he’s not angry in the least.

He probably didn’t mean a word of anything he said.

He’s enjoying it, jerking her around. He’s taking a step back, trying to shake her, as he says it in a sing-song kind of way. “Your burger’s getting cold~” She’d never been able not to get a word in with him before and it’s like he’s dancing with her. She looks back to her plate and then at him, snarking at him. “Well, sure go on! Laugh. You go ahead and try to prove whatever you want. You owe me a heck of a lot more rations than this, so don’t think I’m impressed.” She’s shoving away, gruffly thanking him and trying not to let her face melt off, with embarrassment. “Thanks for the meal. Now go away. Bother some other girl- Susie. She’ll actually like what you dish out. …and quit smiling.”

She’s sitting down, about to take an angry bite of her burger, but when the smell hits her, her anger wavers. She’s savoring the bite then…thankful to him. She swallows eagerly, when she notices that he’s watching her, halfway across the room. It’s…unsettling. She sets her meal down, unable to ignore him…he looks simply dark and handsome, the green glow of his Pipboy highlighting the definition of his muscle.

She’s not so antagonistic when she addresses him then. “…You’re not just staying to torture me while I eat, are you?” His expression, is the picture of unspoken thoughts. He replies with a question of his own. “Your birthday’s tomorrow, right?” She’s caught off guard by the fact, that he asked that earlier too. That he actually knew to ask.

She eyes him, warily. He seems…genuinely interested. She doesn’t see the harm in answering him, before taking another bite of her food. “Last time I checked…yes. You asked this morning too… not sure why you’re so keen on it all of a sudden.”  She almost chokes on her food, when he says something outrageous. “Wanna pop my cherry, for your birthday present?” Her face goes beet red and she barely swallows what she’s eating, because he’s talked dirty before.

He’s just never said something so to the point and not to _her_.

She turns her head, expecting to see a grin, but what he’s giving her…is a toothy smile, full of invitation. She’s cursing at him, not sure what he wants from her anymore. “Damn it, Deloria!” Only then, does it register…it takes minute, but what he just said hits her.  She’s sure when he finally gives her space and leaves her alone, that everything else he said is going to hit her too. Her response is innocent, blurted out in a hot rush. “If you’re a virgin, then I’m Marylyn Monroe!”

He doesn’t even blush, no shame, no trace of his prideful puffed up attitude. Instead, he’s saying pretty things again, out of character. “Nah…you’re prettier.” She scoffs, disbelief curling her toes, as she rolls her eyes at him, putting him straight. “If that’s your new way of trying to get to me, it’s not working. …stay or go. Just…be quiet for once. God.” She’s back to eating her meal, when a minute or two goes by. She couldn’t forget he was there if she tried, but she was very good at ignoring him.

He’s just sitting across the room… messing around with his Pipboy, looking up at her every now and again. It’s awkward. It’s not the normal between them. It has her wanting to get back home fast or even just…break the silence. She’s not going to waste her food though, because she’s more than earned it.

She hears him get up and her heart almost sinks. She swears she’s not paying any mind to him anymore, but his words and his voice, are all that’s on her mind. She hears a click behind her and only when the music is back, does she turn around to look at him. She can’t run from it then…when she sees him standing there. He’s leaning against the jukebox…and playing one of her favorite songs.

_Don’t say….goodnight…_

She might be in trouble.

He’s already looking her way and as he walks up to her, she’s forgotten why they never spend time together. She’s forgotten to think that he’s a dork and an eyesore. She forgets everything, in the few steps he takes to be standing in front of her again. Her heart’s trying to melt on her, but it’s mostly just the song…she refuses to let it be anything else. He hums a sound, like he’s thinking, when suddenly, he’s got his fingers under her chin.

Tilting her eyes up more to his and his smile’s gone. She puts her fingers on his wrist, sure she’ll tear his hand away…but she doesn’t. She lets her fingers linger and it’s like he’s cast some kind of spell. His voice croons over the music, her name on his lips and a promise. “…Evangeline…I’m not kidding. Not about making things up to you.” She honestly wasn’t sure…until then.

His fingers fall off her face, leaving her star struck as he tells her, what he’s going to do tomorrow. “I’m coming to your party…and uh…” Her fingers drag into his palm and then they’re just…giving each other a strangely meaningful stare. She’s not sure why he’s changed or what his game is…but there’s something different alright. Something different happening between them. She thinks he’s going to make a dirty joke again, or say something that’ll have her brushing him off.

How wrong she is about that. It would have been better if he had, because what he says is the opposite. It’s sweet. His eyes dance with a joy, that he never has…and his voice is boyishly excited, heartbreakingly sincere. “…I’m gonna make you smile for a change. ‘N laugh…and you’re not gonna get one reason… to think I’m lying to you, because I’m gonna be a saint.” He looks…unsure of himself then.

She doesn’t know what to think of him anymore. She doesn’t say a word…afraid she’ll break the spell. She just watches him take a step back and feels herself go oddly vulnerable, when he says it with that too soft expression towards her. “Happy Birthday, Angel.” Then…he finally turns and walks away…and she watches him go. She watches him stuck in that spot in that bar stool, as he walks back out into the hall.

Then she’s left alone, with her half eaten burger, and the sound of Andy’s jets…and her favorite song. The most girlish and mortifying song, but it was her favorite. She had a few favorites though. How had he known? How the hell did this happen?

All she’d wanted was a burger and what she got, was a Snake with hungry eyes. Butch Deloria…had invited himself to her birthday party. She feels her breath leave her in a shudder and she finally comes to her senses. Feeling like an idiot, she puts her head in her hands and says it to herself, with a whine. “You moron…why didn’t you SAY something?” She should have told him not to come and just where to stick his intentions.

His intentions, which had mostly been stealing her rations and teasing her just for fun…she’s got no clue what he wants now. She’s not even sure what she wants. She thinks about Susie and how he’s probably full of shit. She thinks he’s lying or she feels like she should think that. He was lying, he had to be.

He’d made it clear though, that all he’s ever wanted apparently, was for her to notice him.

Well, she _noticed_ him tonight alright.

At least her party won’t be boring…if he even shows up.

***************************************************************************************

He waits till he’s halfway down the hallway, to let himself feel the full joy, of what’s just happened. His heart’s beating like a schoolgirl’s and he’s damn near skipping back home. She was a knockout and she’d be tough to charm, but his girl had always been tough on him… but he was going to enjoy every minute of her. She’d blushed for him and maybe she thought he was crazy now, but she didn’t say no to him stopping by tomorrow. He could dance with her tomorrow, in the diner, in front of everyone.

He could make up for every missed moment with her. He could feel like a teenager again with her- he could laugh and lose himself in her…and that’s exactly how he’d felt, till he’d reached his front door. Needless to say… she was a beautiful distraction and everything he never wanted to lose. He’d lost her once and it tore his heart out. Without her beside him to keep him company, he’s reminded of the bigger picture again.

He stands at his front door, his stupid grin, now a much smaller smile, reserved but weighed down by the responsibility on his shoulders. How could he tell her, that he’d loved her longer than they’d been alive? He’s going to meet her father tomorrow and he’ll put off the truth as long as he can, but if he doesn’t work fast, he’ll waste his time with her. He’ll waste the time he needs, to fix what’s really broken- the broken world he might see tomorrow. He’ll forget that he’s not 17 and lose himself in the past, reliving his glory days, like he wished he would have lived them.

It’d be easy to do, easier than he thought it would be. He steps into his house and thinks he’s lucky to love her a little longer and a little better. He wonders if she’s thinking of him right now and he knows he probably surprised her, coming onto her so strongly. He’s feeling silly, because he’s a full grown man and he’s seen her every curve a million times…but he’s actually nervous about seeing her tomorrow. He remembers her face in the sunlight and wants to see a sunrise with her again.

Susie’s face comes into his mind at that moment and he pauses. He owes it to her, to man up and not string her along, so that’s something he should do tomorrow too.

He’s got a party tomorrow and someone’s going to cry, someone’s going to think he’s nuts, and the other’s going to…he doesn’t even know.

He just knows he’ll sleep better, knowing that there’s gonna be music on her birthday tomorrow.

That there’s going to be a tomorrow at all.

**((TBC))**


	6. I Love You So (But You Don't Know)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N Song’s Used: Do You Love Me? - The Contours, You Don’t Know –Helen Shapiro

She was right. As soon as her burger was in her belly, it all came crashing in on her, little by little. Each step she’d taken in the hallway after getting up, was haunted by what had just happened, mere minutes before. He was _sorry_. He was not only sorry, but he was crashing her party…and she hadn’t told him not to.

She forgot to be afraid of the dark, because her fear was now concentrated on more important places. Her brain now doing a checklist of everything, that could possible go wrong. _‘He could replace the icing on my cake with shaving cream …maybe the jukebox is rigged to explode…oh god- what if he was **serious**? That’s even…worse…’_ All the things from worse to worst, picking her brain for every angle, even as she finally crawled beneath her covers, in nothing but her under clothes. She couldn’t breathe. Her heart was fluttering and her face was hot, but there was nothing she could do to bring herself in.

She was a fatalist. She prepared for the worst and rarely expected the best. It was a flaw she couldn’t really shake. She thought too much, planned too much…Butch was never something she could plan for however. He used to be so predictable…now she had no idea what he was going to do next.

He’d been so close. She’d barely remembered making it to her house, let alone her bed, but there she was. She was in bed and all she could think of, was Butch. Her fingers clenched at the memory of how weirdly and suddenly confident he was in the diner. _“Think about it? I’m not real good with words. Sleep on it. I mean it though.”_ She’d scowled to herself over it. She didn’t care…she swore she wouldn’t, whether he showed up and behaved himself or not.

Like hell she was going to be able to “sleep on it” at all.

She’d turned on her side, her hands cradled against her chest for comfort, because for all her cold exterior, she was softhearted damn it. His wrist was large compared to her girlish fingers, when she’d wrapped them around it and his hands, were a lot bigger than hers too. She feels her face get hotter, angry thoughts coiling in her brain, feeling silly for thinking something so…obvious. _‘Of course he’s got big hands! He’s always been bigger than me- dumber than me too! He thinks he’s so slick… nothing but grease-for-brains and too much cologne.’_ Though, with how she’s feeling at the moment, she’s feeling dumber than anyone. She actually really _liked_ the way he smelled.

He’d been… sweet tonight.

The vault was small and everyone attending a birthday was almost a sure thing. Excluding the Tunnel Snakes who usually took parties, as an excuse to sneak off to cause trouble. They’d usually be stealing something from security lock up, like beer or explicitly “banned” items. There wasn’t much “legal” fun to be had really, not unless it was a special occasion though. The adults needed a reason to miss work and the children were happy with something to occupy their day.

No matter what she was doing though, the Snakes made sure to steer clear. The Tunnel Snakes never showed up to any of her special occasions…not once. Not since her disastrous 10th birthday. She’s sure Butch would have given her another bloody nose, if she hadn’t of been so quick to hide behind Gomez. They didn’t even stop by to try and ruin it either…which was almost just as insulting in a way.

She wasn’t a kid anymore though…and neither was he. Even if he acted like a child…most of the time. Where did he get off acting so…so very- _“…Evangeline…I’m not kidding. Not about making things up to you_ “-Just blindsiding her with that blasé, devil may care behavior? He’d been… he hadn’t been a snot nosed brat. He’d grown up in the blink of an eye.

So, that’s how she fell asleep. Thinking of him in a much more mature light, the expanse of his bare shoulders, his too big hands and that disarming smile. It had been a smile which he’d never worn before. She dreamed about him too, not for the first time, but it was certainly a lot more intense than her dreams usually were. Her body feverish in the night and her conflicted feelings about him, doing nothing to quell the dream’s heat.

 _“Wanna pop my cherry, for your birthday present?”_ His teasing and uncomfortably tempting voice, carrying her over to the next morning, with dread.

* * *

 

She wakes to the sound of Amata, urgently shaking her awake.

“Come on! Come on! You have to get up!” Angie answers slowly with a wry smile and a foggy awareness, her brain still off and her eyes still closed. “Oh come on… Mm’ go away, Amata…” Amata’s pulling her up, rolling her eyes and attempting to drag her upright by her wrist. Which…half way might have succeeded, if Angie hadn’t of whined and rolled as far away from her as possible, dragging Amata down beside her instead. Amata makes a loud sound of discontent informing her, just why she’s in her room trying so hard to wake her. “Get up! You’re late for your surprise party- don’t drag me down with you, Angel!” Angie opens her eyes, to see her Pipboy’s clock ruining her plan to stay in bed all day.

Her eyes widen, as Amata scrambles up to sit on her bed beside her. 12:16pm. She’s 16 minutes late and she has a hunch, that her father let her sleep in on purpose. She’s huffing in frustration, complaining as she’s sitting upright. “Couldn’t you have just told them I died from exhaustion? …it’d be a nicer funeral than a party…I’m sure...” Her hair is bed muddled and her eyes itchy from being awoken so abruptly, as Angie’s rubbing her eyes, she catches Amata sniping at her a little, annoyed suspicion in her tone.

Her friend concerned, but also more than a little wry. “Yikes, that’s not what you’ve been saying all week…why’d you wake up on the wrong side of the bed?” Angel’s rolling her shoulders, stretching as her blankets are sliding into her lap. She makes a grunt of annoyance, glaring at Amata with light irritation. “You’re the one who came in here guns blazing…” Amata shrugs, nodding and now almost completely dismissive, not wanting to miss another moment of cake and presents. “Well, everyone’s waiting. You should be thanking me! Sorry, for not coming to get you sooner actually.” Angel had been working nonstop at the clinic.

If anything, her dad’s birthday present to her was letting her rest longer than he should have. Angie couldn’t fault her though, not really. She wasn’t a very heavy sleeper and had trouble getting to sleep, so she was just tired…even if Amata could have been more gentle about it. She wasn’t the best morning person. So sighing, she’s picking up a pillow and tossing it at Amata’s face.

Not enough to maim, but enough to express her feelings. Amata makes a sound of surprise on impact, which has Angel smiling now instead of scowling. When her best friend’s got the pillow-made-projectile in her lap, she’s got a flabbergasted kind of expression that has Angie wanting to grin. Her voice is slow, tired, but a little less sour. “…Thanks for waking me up. Really. It was thoughtful. Aren’t you going to thank me for the pillow?” Angie’s got her legs spread, a foot on the mattress, knee raised and her elbow resting on it, her chin in her palm.

Amata’s reaction is evident. She closes her mouth, does a double take at the pillow in her lap and proceeds to wield it like a weapon. Angie’s laughing, scrambling to get away as her friend’s coming at her, laughing right along with her. “Oh I’ll thank you! Come here so I can _thank_ you a few times! Maybe it’ll get you moving!” Angie gets a face full of pillow, as she almost falls off the foot of her bed. She’s not in such a bad mood anymore.

Amata took her mind off her woes, her night of restless dreams…Deloria. She’s hugging the pillow to her chest, sitting with it cross legged at the end of her bed, Amata mirroring her position at the head by her pillows. Angie’s laughing is halted by a yawn and a friendly sarcastic tone passes by her lips. “…The Future Overseer is **so** ladylike. God forbid her being anything less, right?” Amata’s coy with her, rolling her eyes, good natured. “Says the one who chugged a full bottle of Quantum in one go… I bet the whole vault heard you. They probably thought the reactor was bursting.” Angie’s smiling…till she remembers what she has to look forward to today…dwelling on it again.

Her face goes blank, Deloria on her mind like flashes of too white teeth and a too soft expression that shouldn’t belong. She’s full of dread and mixed feelings again. Amata’s patting her on the knee, telling her they have to go again. “Ok, enough stalling! Come on! I thought you were looking forward to this? Why so down?” Angel’s eyes flicker from her friend’s slender fingers and then to her face. Angie’s replaying last night in her mind again and before she can help it, she blurts it out. “Butch is coming…”

Her friend’s eyebrows seem to raise at that, like she knew they would, because it was a shocking thing to say. Amata’s shifting closer, concern in her voice, protective annoyance. “What? Really? How do you know? What are they planning? Those stupid Tunnel Snakes ruin-“Angie’s waving a hand, cutting her off, her face a scowl again. “-Not the **_Tunnel Snakes_** …just **Butch**.” Amata’s in her personal bubble poking a finger into her cheek, suspicion on her face, her voice full of it as well. “Since when are they separate?” That puts Angie right on the spot actually.

They weren’t.

She’s saying as much, although she’s a lot less believable than she should be, swatting her friend’s hand away in the process. “Since…I don’t know!” Amata’s giving her a look that she doesn’t want to answer to. So instead, Angie’s throwing her bare legs off her bed, running over to her closet on the left of them, barking at Amata all the way. “-I’ll tell you on the way. I’m **late** remember?” Sure enough, Amata’s jumping up behind her, asking her urgently once more. “Tell me what? What happened? –Don’t hold out on me now!” Angie’s picking out a suit and then rushing over to her dresser to get a pair of clean underwear.

Her words are rushed as well, Amata striding over to her bedroom door, leaning again the frame, listening to her from across the room. “I’ll tell you while we’re walking!” Angie’s rushing into her bathroom and Amata groans a little over dramatically, stomping over to her bed. Her best friend flops down onto the unmade sheets, calling to her as she begins to change in the bathroom. “Fine! Don’t tell me! You’re right! We’re **both** late now! So go faster!” Her birthdays before, have honestly been a lot less stressful.

Even her 10th, now that she thinks about it.

She tosses her items on the counter avoiding thinking about it, as best as she can.

She’s turning on the water in the sink, brushing her teeth, looking at herself in the mirror, the bathroom door cracked behind her. Tooth brush in hand, Angie’s searching the face she’s stared at every morning since she was born. Her eyes are blue like her father’s… sharing her father’s intimidating, cold, yet nurturing glint to them. Sometimes, she wondered why her father tried to keep her so busy everyday…because the older she grew, the more he tried. She also sees…bags under her eyes.

Deloria’s echoed voice in her head, has her brushing a little harder than usual. _“…You look real tired, doncha…”_ No wonder he’d noticed…she noticed too. She’s setting her toothbrush back into the white cup on her sink carefully, quickly slipping her old panties off. She’s replacing them and hearing Amata cat calling behind her, she turns around. Her cheeks full of tooth paste still, as she sees Amata’s head turned towards her, spread out on her back, lounging on her bed.

She spits it into the sink, laughing and joking with her. “One these days, Alice! To the moon!” Amata’s back to staring at her ceiling again she’s sure, hearing Amata speaking up from across the room. “Looks like a full moon to me.” She brushes her hair out, as she notices it had been a while since she’d last gotten a trim…mostly because she’d rather wait for Andy to do it after hours, than face Butch’s butchering. She doesn’t want to think about him anymore, but today there’s no avoiding him is there? Not if he meant what he’d said.

Butch was a lot of things…but he was a terrible liar, even if he was trying not to be.

She’s shutting off the faucet and staring at her reflection again, her hair now untangled, yet wavy from the way she’d slept. It’s falling low on her chest, getting to be impractical. Her thoughts drift to her father’s eyes again…knowing she has her mother’s hair color. She feels her heart pang with a very old wound that can’t be healed. The older she became, she realized how very little she knew about her mother…and her father?

She was starting to wonder if she knew him well at all? He’d been meeting with Jonas more often, sneaking around almost. He’d duck out of work early and claim he was going to put in requisition forms for new surgical equipment, only to come back empty handed. She wondered what was really in those notes her father would walk away with and if the tired look on his face, was more than just work stress. It had been eating at her for a few years now…that her father didn’t always act like the same man anymore.

She’s tugging her vault suit on roughly, a bit anxious over her melancholy thoughts, when of course…she thinks of Butch. She takes one look at herself in the mirror, at the vault suit style she’s worn every day since she can remember. It’s… boring. She’s pausing midway, suddenly getting a little bent out of shape. So what if she didn’t dress up today? Who was she trying to impress- it was **her** party wasn’t it?

 _“I’m coming to your party…and uh…”_ she hates how much he’d gotten to her last night, with that look on his face…Butch was a lot of things- _“…I’m gonna make you smile for a change.”_ -but boring wasn’t one of them. She’s swallowing her pride and for the first time in a while…she’s looking to impress someone. The first time ever really…that she’s even entertaining the idea of impressing **him** of all people. Maybe she wants to dress up for a change? …maybe she just wants to go into that diner dolled up and ready for war today?

Maybe she just really wants him to be telling the truth?

She’s letting her vault suit slip to the floor and walking out, going for her closet again. Amata’s calling from the bed, rolling onto her side to face her. “What are you doing now? Everyone **will** think we both died at this rate, by the time we’re there.” Angie’s heart is racing and her focus is on reaching back into the far corner of her closet, for a box. An aged, navy blue, dress box. She feels a thought for her mother pass by…she wonders if she’d think she was pretty if she wore it today?

If she’d smile and do up her hair? What she’d of been like to speak to…if only once. She gets on her knees, and takes off the box’s lid, hearing Amata coming up behind her, her bed creaking. She stares down reverently at the royal blue swing dress, which belonged to a mother she’d never known. Amata’s hand is on her shoulder, as she takes it out of the white tissue paper, and holds it up.

Angie’s voice is a bit distant. “…Maybe I want to…” She huffs out a laugh, a sad smile on her mouth as she says it. “…be _fashionably_ late?” Amata’s voice is gentle. “…That was hers right? ...your mother’s?” Angie nods her head, her eyes searching the soft fabric, fingers ghosting over the sweetheart neckline. She was going to wear it…but for who now?

She’s blushing, because she knows she’s not just wearing it to feel closer to her mother, on the day of her birth. She reaches back and puts her hand on Amata’s, who’s resting on her bare shoulder, palm on the strap of her white undershirt. She’s looking up at her friend leaning over and shows her weakness, that no one else really gets to see from her. “It’s weird missing someone you’ve never met…” Amata’s voice is comforting, her expression the closest thing to motherly that Angel’s got. “No…I don’t think so. I know how you feel… I miss mine too sometimes.” Angie’s searching her friend’s eyes and feels the sorrow lingering too long.

So swallowing her pain, she’s getting to her feet and taking up the box and the dress with her. She lays them out on the bed, changing the subject to more…immediate problems. “So… I ran into Butch at the diner last night…” Amata’s outcry is once again, right on the nose and seemingly eager to change the subject as well. “What do you mean you “ran into” him? What’d he do to you? Wait, were you **alone** with him?” Angie’s pulling off her under shirt, in nothing but her plain white bra now, as she goes to her dresser again. As she starts to dig out something less bulky to go under her mother’s dress, she’s back on the thought of her birthday becoming “D-day”, complaining about Deloria’s erratic about face. “He was…nothing happened…the total **Nutball** just invited himself to my party is all. –then he just walked away…nothing weird!”

She’s found the right blue lace bra to wear, scoffing more to herself than Amata. “Tch, no…actually everything was really, really weird… he’s weird! Pretending he’s sorry, acting civil out of nowhere…” Amata’s chiming in, getting agitated by her vagueness. “He’s _sorry_? What? What aren’t you telling me! You better stop hinting, before I make you talk!” She’s stalking behind her the whole way, as she goes to gather up her dress, slipping it on and grumbling after it’s over her head. “Would you relax? I said I’d tell you on the way…besides, he’s probably full of it anyway.” Angie’s reaching under her bed and pulling out another old box.

Inside is yet another hand-me-down. She’s more sentimental than her cold exterior would ever hint at, everything her mother left her kept in good condition. She rarely wore anything that was hers, unless it was a very, very special occasion and even then, she still rarely did. Her mother’s black heels fit her so well, that not only did she have her mother’s hair…she must have had her feet too. The pieces of a person she could only wonder about, because her father never really spoke about her.

Amata’s got her hands on her wrist and tugging her up, as soon as she gets them both on. Rolling her eyes and smiling happily, her friend takes her hand, excitedly talking at her. “Then let’s go! We can walk and talk! Then **you** can start making sense.” Angie’s growling at her a little, a pout on her face, her voice speaking cynically. “…if he does show up… well there’s still a chance of this turning into a funeral- and it’s not going to be mine! Not if I can help it…” Amata’s practically dragging her through her living room and the heels she’s wearing, have her stumbling a bit.

They’ll take some getting used to. Amata’ stopping at her front door with her and turning towards her. She sees something sad, an almost wanting glint in her friend’s warm eyes, as she leans down and kisses her cheek, softly…lingering for too long. Angie’s eyebrows raise as Amata’s voice gets a little quiet, shy…sweeter than it should be. “You look beautiful in that. Everyone will be admiring you from afar, you know that right?” Angel’s heart flutters in shock…put off, yet utterly effected.

Sometimes she wondered if Amata cared for her…more than she did about her. She’d think back to the night she’d kissed her, both of them tipsy, Amata being the one to suggest it. It wasn’t unpleasant, but Angie hadn’t felt one way or the other about it…but Amata? There was something that just seemed broken between them afterwards. A disconnect that neither of them wanted to acknowledge.

Angie’s about to comment however, when Amata takes a step back, as if the moment had never happened. She’s closing the door on whatever that was, that wanting in her eyes again. She’s done it more than once. There are somethings that shouldn’t be said and others you can’t take back. Angie learned that the hard way.

Angie’s being tugged along faster than her mind can catch up with her own legs. Amata’s gotten her out of the door and walking at an almost jog in the hallway. So fast, that Angie almost trips again. Evangeline notices however…that the diner is the other way. “Woah, woah, where are we going? …You know, an Overseer who’s got bad direction, isn’t a very comforting thought for the future…” She feels Amata’s fingers lacing into hers, her palm warm, and her smile friendly.

With a giddy laugh, Amata answers her, seeming to lose interest in getting here on time. Angie finds her change of demeanor odd, till of course Amata’s turning in the direction of her home. Completely focused on what she’s been skirting around all morning, Amata’s voice is both kind, yet cunning. “We’re taking the long way… A dress that nice needs makeup to match right?” Buttering her up first, but also…Amata really loved doing her makeup.

She squeezes her hand once, the feeling leaving Angie reassured, even as her friend puts her on the spot again. “You’ll have plenty of time to tell me, **why** Butch, is all you can think about today. You know? While I’m doing your eyes.” Angie snickers. “Of course there’s a hidden agenda. –and I’m not thinking about him, I’m thinking about....” Amata’s unlacing their fingers and throwing an arm around her shoulders and Angie’s leaning against her side, sighing…thankful for the physical contact. “I’m starting to think… I don’t know **what** he’s thinking anymore! He was so…so…” With a funny look and a teasing voice, Amata’s interprets her, finishing her sentence. “- **off**?”

Angie’s eyebrows raise a bit, caught off guard. That’s exactly what she was going to say. Angel’s rolling her eyes, nudging Amata with her hip, making her chuckle. Angel’s going over last night in her mind again, finally getting into it, as they make their way to Amata’s home. “Ok, ok fine…yesterday I got out kind of late. Curfew had already been called. It was dark in the halls…” Angie’s cutting herself off, remembering the jarring walk in the dark, and complaining. “-And someone needs to tell maintenance to replace the damn lights! It was terrifying walking under them last night. Flickering like a horror movie…”

Amata’s listening intently, her voice funny, indulgent. “Go on…”

Angel’s thoughts on today, being derailed from yesterday’s worries. “I was hungry and I wanted a burger…and I didn’t see the harm in getting one…and then there he was…”

Too bad she couldn’t see into the future, because maybe today wouldn’t have been so utterly disastrous if she had.

 

* * *

 

He’s nervous.

Legitimately nervous.

Butch hadn’t thought he could be this full of nerves anymore, but damn. She always got to him, made him wanna try too hard. He’s pacing the floor of his bedroom in nothing but his boxers. He’s thinking about dressing up, thinking against it, thinking about how he should be thinking of anything else right then. He’s looking at his father’s old tux, just glaring at him from his closet’s back corner and laughing at himself.

He runs a hand through his hair, thinking it’d be too much for her to handle- she’d think he’d **really** lost it if he showed up in full formal. Maybe he had? Pretending he was younger than he was, safer than he was, that he didn’t know what the years ahead held for him? That’s not all that’s got him pacing around though. Stopping dead in his steps, his eyes are on the chip sitting next to her birthday card.

The two items laid out on his nightstand, both keys to a better future in his mind. He’s more nervous about being brushed off by her father. His lips quirk up into a smile at that. He wants her old man to take him seriously. He’s an old man himself, but he feels young today, so he’s going to embrace that.

He feels hopeful today. Excited. He’s got half a mind to give into the feeling entirely. He wants to dress up today, because even a little effort will probably leave her feeling differently about him. She’s always made him work harder, try harder- she’d always be there to kick his ass and make him put down the scotch.

She was always there to praise him, always genuinely charmed when he did something thoughtful for her.

She’ll feel warmer maybe, if he does something just a little bit braver today, than he would have done before. So, he’s going over to his dresser and taking out his nicest pair of jeans. They’re not worn out, hell none of them are, but he’s hardly ever worn these. They’re black, darker than all the others. He remembers Christine bringing them to him after sewing club one day, his cousin working way too hard on them, telling him it was a late Christmas gift.

He really took his cousin for granted, but she did stuff like that for him often. She made him clothes, pestered him about how his mother was doing, and overall nagged him like a sister would. He’s tugging them up one leg at a time, feeling this aching in his heart, like he wants to thank her and he probably never did, so that’s why. She deserves a “thank you” for trying too damn hard. He’s buttoning them up and striding over towards the full length mirror set up besides his dresser.

The sight of himself, once again shocks him, even though it shouldn’t. He couldn’t help it. He’s rubbing his “bad” eye, that’s perfect again. He huffs out a laugh, sounding vain to himself, but he’s damn near brand new too. He looks at the lack of hair on his chest, young skin, no scars, just youth. Then he turns around and the jeans are tight on him, in all the right ways.

He’s shoving the pockets in, smiling too big, and thinking out loud. “Lookin’ good! Hot damn. Smoking hot…look out!” he’s snickering and going back for his socks. He’s picking up his Pipboy from out of the clutter, the little hula dancer moving as he bumps the dresser lightly. It’s 11:38. He’s still got a few minutes to get there early if he had the idea to.

He’s digging around in his sock drawer, still able to find a pair without looking too hard. Somethings just stay with you no matter how old you got. Where you used to put your socks, where to reach in the fridge for a beer, even where you reached for your tooth brush. Muscle memory or something he guessed. That’s probably why it wasn’t too hard for him to fall back into place again so easily.

He’s stalking over to where his boots are, sitting on his bed, when suddenly, his mother’s voice is at the door. She’s leaning on the frame, her hands curled around it absent mindedly. “You’re looking fancy in those. Where you headed to, looking like that?” Butch hums, tying up his boots after getting them on, looking at her with a smile border lining on sweet. His mother was nosy when she was sober, he’d just never noticed how doting. It got to him a little, but not enough to make him mad, not really.

He’s leaning back on his palms, shrugging at her, giving her the truth. “Angie’s Party’s today.”

He’s grinning like a shark, but he can’t help that. Thinking of knocking her off her feet, that blonde of his that’s just too much fun to rile up. He’s kicking up off the bed, getting to his feet and walking over to his mother, his hands gesturing to his jeans. “You think there’re too fancy, huh?”  His mother’s scowling then, getting a mean look to her, warning him. “I think you’ve got a mind for trouble, is what I think.” He nods in understanding, because it’s not like he hadn’t always had a nose for being a problem.

He always raised a little hell everywhere he went. Couldn’t help himself sometimes, it was just who he was. This time, he wasn’t thinking about trouble though. He was thinking of an Angel, of getting too close to her, of talking sweet in her ear, and maybe being a nice guy, instead of a bully for once- thinking about tomorrow. He just smiles at his mother, teasing her. “Oh honest, Ma’! No trouble today. You don’t trust me?”

His mother’s giving him a skeptical look, which makes Butch laugh, as he takes a step back into his room. “Hey! Cross my heart! I’m not going there to make her cry again.” His mother’s voice is hard, might have even scared him back when he was still wet behind the ears. “I swear to god, Butchie- you ruin that girl’s party and get locked up again, I’ll-I’ll…” She’s huffing at him angrily. “I don’t know what I’ll do, but there’s gonna be hell to pay in this house, whenever they drag your ass out of lock up.” He feels his heart pang, where there was a time when he would have thrown a fit. Told her off. Instead, he’s doing something that brings her eyebrows up in shock.

She had every right not to believe him and that much, he thought was justified.

He gently puts his hands on her shoulders, looking her in the eye, serious. His voice soft, honest, and his words sincere in a way they’d never been, not to her. “I promise you, Ma’. That’s not why I’m going.” His mother’s face is blank and he’s sighing, thinking of all the reasons why he **is** going today. Giving his mother a reassuring squeeze, his fingers fall off her small frame and he’s looking over to the tux hanging up, off behind him in his closet. He’s talking to it now, still trying to ease his mother’s worries, somehow unable to look the woman who raised him in the eye. “I just… want to tell her I’m sorry, you know? Make things right. Start something better with her. …make up for all the things I didn’t do.”

He wanted to tell his girl a lot of things. Maybe he wasn’t even talking about Angie when he said what he did right then though? He couldn’t look his mother in the eyes, because he was saying it to her too. He was sorry for being who he was, before he’d learned to be better. Better to his mother, his friends…and to his wife.

Sorry for letting her die to an Enclave Soldier’s gun. Sorry for all the things he didn’t say over the years of them growing older together. Sorry for all the love he forgot to give her, in quiet nights and lonely mornings. He was sorry alright and something about the way he said it, made his mother push past him. He caught the look she gave him, like she knew he was talking funny, but she didn’t want to address what he was saying either.

She’s walking over to where he’s looking instead, going for the tux.

His father got married to her in it, so of course she knows he’s serious about looking nice, if he’s thinking of wearing it. His eyes move to her face and he’s seeing something sad there, wistful. It reminds him of how he looks some days, when the Wasteland’s too dusty and the blood’s too much to clean out of his clothes. A part him realizes then with a lamenting scowl, that he’s got his mother’s tired, jaded face. His mother’s voice is sharp, like she’s hiding her tears. “Your Papa only wore this once…”

Her fingers take up one of the sleeves, her tone severe. “-It’ll be what you’re wearing, when they put you in the oven, if you’re lying to me.”

He’s got a sour look on his face now, he’s sure. He’s walking up behind her, throwing an arm around her shoulders. She’s leaning into him not even realizing it and he feels his heart tear a little over it. His mother needed him around, even if she acted like she could take on the world. He knew better.

He’d always known better.

He’s talking gentle, humble yet still put off by her nagging; he’d kind of missed it though. “You don’t want me to wear it or something? …If it bothers you Ma’, well…” He’s jostling her little shoulders, laughing, joking with her, content to pretend. “-Well, I’m dead gorgeous no matter what I’m in. I could wear a potato sack and the girls would be lining up to get into it with me! You know what I mean, Ma’?” He watches his Ma’s lips quirk up into the tiniest smirk. He’s cracking wise now, trying to get her to smile, being a hell of a lot more cocky than he used to be. “You know what I mean, or do ya know I mean! Cuz’ I’m starting to wonder lately… Ma’ you know where babies come from?”

He hasn’t spoken to her in years. Hasn’t seen her face, not even in a photo. He’s falling back into an old set of shoes that he’s shocked fit so well. His own son’s face is in his mind now, the talk of babies just bringing it to his mind, as he plays like he’s a kind again himself. His smile tries to falter, heartache tries to knock him silly.

Butch hears her snort, as he forgets to feel sorrowful at her sudden outburst. He’s putting on an act, kidding with her, his voice full of mock concern, smiling when he kind of feels like crying. “You’re just gonna let me go off to some girl’s party? All pretty? Without “the talk”? Oh you’re right, Ma’! I better be on my best behavior! I could come home pregnant-“His mother bursts out laughing, whapping him lightly upside the head and pulling herself out from under his arm. He’s laughing too, when she barks at him, trying not to smile as his joy becomes real the louder she snickers. “Cut the gas or you’ll be leaving here with a limp, Boy! I meant it!” He’s putting his hands up in surrender, enjoying this more than someone who hasn’t it lost all, could enjoy something.

This stupid, silly conversation with his mother that he never got to have.

It occurs to him then…that shit. He’s got no idea what’s going to happen today, now that he thinks about it. He’s rubbing the back of his neck, his grin faltering over that thought, till his mother gets his attention again. Her voice softer, still stern, a decent distraction. “That Blackwell girl’s real sweet, too nice for you I thought you’d said. …any other reason other than your “guilt”, for wearing your Daddy’s suit? …you’re different lately.” Butch’s heart warms when Angie’s young face flashes into his head, her pretty eyes last night in the jukebox’s yellow glow tying his heart into knots.

Years of change will make you **different** alright.

He’s changing the subject, asking for permission again, to wear his father’s memory on his back. “If I said “yes”, there’s more to it than my guilty conscious, could I wear it then? Just the jacket?” His Ma’ looks up at him, her eyes searching his and almost making him squirm. She was good at mean looks and tough glares, the best at “if looks could kill”. She hums gruffly, thinking and then she’s taking the jacket off the hanger. She’s handing it to him, with a rough reply, saying that she’s trusting him in her own hard headed kind of way. “Don’t get anything on it, or I’ll take it out of your hide.”

He takes it into his hands and somehow, it means more to him, because his mother handing it to him. He looks at the fabric and his smile’s sad, but at least it’s real. He carries a sadness for all the things he didn’t have and the things he didn’t give enough of, right then. He’s doing everyone better this time around and he’s not wasting one second of it. He laughs and gives his mother a big kiss on the cheek, the kiss loud, the smacking almost comical, and his words giddy. “Thank you, Mother Dear!”

Filled with a son’s gratitude.

His Ma’ squawks a little, rubbing her cheek like it offends her, but he knows better. His mother’s waving him off, looking flustered like she’s not used to him being nice. He knows he rarely was to anyone, so it’s no big surprise why any kindness or thanks from him, could knock the wind out of her. She’s walking out of his room then, passing him and patting him on the back. “Yeah, well… you’re welcome, Butchie.” He watches her go, looking back at the black suit jacket in his hands, nervous again.

He’s going to a party with consequences, which reach much farther than him just playing Casanova with his girl. Consequences that aren’t just about him anymore or even just Angie. All his life he’s taken things for granted, but as his mother’s back leaves his sight, he pauses. In that moment he’s reminded, about how fleeting joy can be, how people will leave you in the end. He wonders if he can change anything at all, his fingers tightening on the jacket’s fabric.

He’s only one man and the world’s much bigger than he could ever hope to be.

Time waits for no man.

* * *

 

Takes him about 10 more minutes, but he’s walking out the door, card and chip in pocket.

His front door closes behind him, reminding him of the last time he’d left his house in the daytime. It was the last time he ever walked through his front door, his mother yelling curses at him. Telling him to go, calling him a traitor. He’d never known how to handle his mother when she got like that.

Drunk and disorderly.

He knew now though. He’d learned how to handle a lot more coming at him, than just one alcoholic woman trying to swat at his face. He’s stronger now than he ever was, even if he’s a lot more damaged and a lot more tired. He thinks he’s beat up anyway, he knows it, even if he used to feeling it all the time more, than he did now. Living in the Wasteland gave you scars inside and out, but he’d learned to stop complaining about them so much.

They became a part of who he was as time went on. The older you got, the more your body ached. Old joints, old bones, and old injuries took their toll. He’d had back problems and achy joints, wrinkles- he was older than he thought he’d live to be. It was all thanks to her too…taking care of him, keeping him alive with her kind hands and wisdom.

He checks his Pipboy that’s now strapped around his arm over his jacket. 11:48AM reads out to him in bold green font. It takes about 10 minutes to walk to the diner from his place, 7 if he’s walking fast. He rounds the corner into the main hallway without looking up from his Pipboy. When out of the blue, he’s hearing a voice he hasn’t heard in a very long time.

A voice that was supposed to be long in the grave. “Oh, hey, Butch! Wow…where you going dressed up like that?” His eyes look up and see a ghost. His voice shaken, obviously and deeply. “Paulie…” He’s stuck there staring at him, dark skin and a leather jacket, that Butch would one day take off his lifeless corpse right before they’d burn him. A fellow Tunnel Snake through and through.

Paul’s giving him an odd look, a gentle smile on the man’s mouth. “Uh, yeah…That’s me…last time I looked in the mirror…”

Butch’s brains have gone dead for the moment, being bum rushed by bad memories. Good memories that make the bad ones hurt worse. His best friend’s final moments, suddenly fresh in his mind, while he just stands there gawking at him. Paul’s stepping closer waving a hand in front of his eyes. “You alright man? You look like you’re seeing things…” He was.

Butch’s lips twist up in a smile, overwhelmed with warm feelings. Paul was like a brother to him in a way Wally never was. He was always good for a laugh and he was the only one who could really get him to listen to reason. He’d died too soon and there wasn’t a moment that Butch didn’t regret losing him. With a grin and without thinking, he’s pulling his best friend into a hug.

His arms wrap around the other man’s upper back tightly, leaving Paul with a surprised start. “Hey! Woah there, what’s wrong, Butch-Man?” Paul’s warm and alive, instead of cold and long gone. Butch is sure he should be handling this better, but he’s not. He’s seen a lot of things in his life, but he’s never seen someone come back from the dead before. Now, he’s pretty sure he’s seen it at least 3 times between today and yesterday.

He’s talking as steadily as he can, because he almost wants to cry tears of joy. “Nothing, Man…not a damn thing…what’s there to be upset over, huh?” Paul’s clearing his throat awkwardly, patting him on the back and returning the hug uncomfortably. “Someone die? Is that why you’re dressed like that…?” Butch rests his chin on the other man’s shoulder, thinking back to the last time they ever spoke. It was side by side, in the dark, against the wall in the ransacked, torn apart clinic that used to be someplace safe. The clinic he knew better than any other room in the vault practically, where Angie or the Doc would always patch him up- that was the day he lost the last bit of childhood he had to his name.

 “ _Yeah…s’not that bad, Butch…”_ That’s what he’d said, even as he was dripping blood, bleeding all over the bandages they’d wrapped him up with.

They weren’t helping at all, but they were so sure he’d be alright, even as the white gauze turn dark red. So sure, that it wasn’t serious or that tomorrow would come peacefully. That things would be better, once they made it outside of 101. Or maybe they’d just both been in denial, because neither of them had been ready to say “so long”. _“I’m sure it’ll heal by next week.”_ He’d died the next night, his wounds just too severe.

Paul was the only friend he’d ever had that didn’t choose to leave him…other than his wife. _“Just… take care of yourself better alright?”_ He’s pulling away from his surrogate brother then, hearing Paul joking with him, breaking the tension. “That must be why you’re drunk so early too, huh?” Butch fights the urge to get misty eyed, patting his boy on his shoulder. Feeling one part joyful and the other part of him, just feels like he’s in pain- like he’s opened up old wounds. He never thought he’d ever see him again.

So he’s joking around, just taking in the sight of his friend’s face. “Why the hell do I have to be drunk? Can’t a guy hug his best friend? Paulie, I’m wounded.” Butch’s grinning too big and Paul’s snickering. “What’s gotten into you?” The fountain of youth, that’s what. It’s like something out of a dream, another life and another time. It’s even enough to leave Butch forgetting just where he’s walking to.

Butch’s giving him one last pat with both hands on his shoulders. Almost as if he’s checking to see if he’s really there. There’s no blood or danger, no fear. Just two old friends standing together in a hallway they both grew up in. Butch is finding it a little hard to let go of him, even as he stands up taller and leans back on his boot heels.

He couldn’t tell him the truth, even if he wanted to. Can’t tell him why he’s wanting to cry or why his hands are shaking a little. He thought he’d of had steel in his veins by now, but damn it, he’s shook up. Butch brings one of his hands up, rubbing at the scruff of his neck, a nervous tick he never got rid of. He’s grinning, at a loss, trying to think of something to say to his friend, who’s got a question on his face for him.

He’s shrugging, still at a loss. Letting the words flow, genuine, a sigh of long lost relief. “It’s good to see ya, Paul…” Then he takes a breath, composing himself. Butch knows he’s not acting right, but it’s really is good to see him. He’s having to shake his thoughts clear just to talk right, just feeling like Paul’s gotta be the first to know now. “Don’t tell, Wally…but uh…”

Butch’s ears are pricked up then, listening for any footsteps coming up on them. Butch hums to himself, feeling a tad bit silly. It’s not like he cares who knows what he’s got planned for today. Everyone’s going to know the second he asks her to dance. He can’t help it though, he’s still a Wastelander.

It’s just a habit of learning how to survive in a world, where every second could be your last. A feral ghoul around every corner. The more he thinks about it, he’s always listening for danger, even when there’s none around. He doesn’t fuckin’ care who knows about his plans, just as long she knows he’s only got eyes for her, that he’s serious. It’s not that he’s hiding his feelings really, just that he wants Paul to be the only one to knows them right then.

He’s not afraid to say it anymore though- that he loves her. There were very few things in the world he was truly afraid of anymore. He’d had to face every single fear he’d ever had. When your worst fears come down on you all at once, it’s hard to give a shit about what people think about you. He used to care when he was 17, always putting on a show, always being insecure.

He thinks by now though, he shouldn’t have to explain why he loves his wife to anyone, anyway. He loves her and he’ll never love another like her ever again. He opens his mouth to say it with pride, but something about the way Paul’s starting to smile lopsidedly, has him itching a little. He forgot that look. That goofy face he’d missed, that’s got him unable to speak, because it’s surreal seeing him again.

Butch just takes the card out of his pocket instead of saying anything.

He’s holding it up to show Paul, feeling a little guilty over it then. He’s scowling a little, laughing at himself for not taking more time on his gift. His voice goes soft on him, thinking of her face, her smile, her goodness- just her. “…Cat’s out of the bag. I’ve got a thing for blondes.” Paul’s voice is teasing, but it’s warm at least. “I get it. You’re the one who’s dying, huh? Making your last amends?” Butch’s eyes scan the handmade card with reverence.

It was the most he’d ever tried to actually do something nice for her, when he was 17. He was holding a piece of his heart he never got to give away. So, maybe that’s what has him looking Paul in the eyes, saying it with such conviction. “Something like that…Maybe I’m just tired of how things are around here? I’m pretty tired of having to say that too...People keep askin’ me stuff like that lately.” Paul’s eyes are scanning the paper, with only a very small amount of surprise. Paul’s eyebrows raise up calmly, his voice holding disbelief. “Well I’ll be…”

Paul’s asking him meekly, because he doesn’t want to touch a nerve. “…you and the Nosebleed?” It’s endearing to him, to watch Paul working so hard not to step on his toes. Butch’s shoulders relax, as Paul’s saying something that he should have seen coming. “…about time.” Butch’s grinning too big, because of course Paul could see something he hadn’t be able to for 20 years almost. His friend would have been a good man if he’d lived to see 30, a smart man.

Paul’s knuckles push at his shoulder playfully, as he’s putting the card back into his pocket. Butch can’t help pushing at him back and suddenly, Paul’s squaring up with a laid back kind of grin. Laughing, Butch’s feeling younger by the second, blocking Paul’s punches, talking shit. “Tch, oh yeah? You wanna go? Let’s rumble!” Paul’s punches are playful, his form’s a little sloppy though. Butch finds that dodging punches comes just as easily to him as breathing.

He’s got a grace he knows he shouldn’t possess and Paul seems to notice too. Already tired, Paul’s huffing, but Butch’s just getting started…till his eyes catch the time. Paul’s making a comment that doesn’t go unnoticed, out of breath. “…you been…practicing?” Butch curses, putting his arms down and seeing 12:01 glaring at him. “Shit.” Paul’s leaning over, his hands on his knees, panting at him. “…What?”

Butch’s barely having to catch his breath, when he gets it in his head, to bring Paul along with him. He offers his friend a hand and Paul takes it, grasping it, letting him pull him upright. Butch’s asking him with a little bit of rush to his voice. “You got anywhere to be right now?” Butch thinks the words to himself, a cynical kind of thought. _‘Other than dead as dirt…’_ Paul’s shaking his dark head of hair at him, the African American boy in need of a cut, Butch notes absently. “…nah. Was just heading down to commissary to spend the last of my rations.”

His mind is set on the diner, on Angie’s party, and drifting to the confrontation with Doctor Blackwell he’d have to have today. Butch is hauling Paul up by his arm, dragging him along, feeling like taking advantage of being able to have him nearby for moral support. He’s late, but that’s ok, because he’s got plenty of time. Paul’s stumbling behind him, as Butch chuckles, not giving him an out. He tells him where they’re **both** going to be now. “Guess who’s crashing the party with me then? Come on!”

His chest seizes with excitement and it feels natural. The words booming out of his mouth, without him even having to think too hard about them. A creed and a promise, he’d carry with him till he couldn’t talk anymore. His wife’s voice beside his in a far off memory. The words, his family’s future and the epitaph that was sure to be on his grave, echoing throughout the hallways of the Vault, he used to slither through. “Tunnel Snakes, Rule!”

Paul’s spluttering, not too keen on being dragged along, but he’s still following him. Tripping on his bootlaces, tugging his arm out of Butch’s grasp, and shoving him, rough housing. Butch’s snickering and cursing, telling him to “Watch the tux, would ya Paulie?”, while playing into his own lost youth’s charms. Maybe this would be a midlife crisis, if he was just pretending he was twice as young as he was. Paul’s voice brings back a spark to his life that he’d missed out on. “Tunnel Snakes, Rule!”

He’s thinking the rest solemnly, as time ticks on, _‘Birth to earth…womb to tomb…’_

Butch knows though, that he can’t play the boy who cried Tunnel Snake forever. He’s not a kid anymore. He’s seen death and blood, violence. He’s seen war and he’s got one to win, lives to save, his own life to save- her life in his hands. Right then, with his best friend shoving him, the two of them skidding down the vault corridor though?

He just fights to see what’s right there in front of him and not to lose sight of it this time.

* * *

 

The lipstick’s heavy on her mouth, adding to the frown she’s got going.

Its dark red and belonged to Amata, before she gave it to her…even if Amata still keeps it at her house.

Her eyes are smudged darkly, Amata having sat her down for 10 more minutes just to do them, forgetting the party almost entirely.

The mascara weighs heavily on her lashes, as she knows now more than ever, that no matter what happens today, she’ll be damned if she cries.

Butch is going to be the one crying if it has to be that way, she swears it…but she’s got her hopes high enough to break her neck falling.

The Overseer is usually in his office, so it had given them plenty of time to get in and out, without seeing him. The Overseer tended to rub her the wrong way and she always felt a pang of hatred toward how he treated his daughter. Angie’s legs feel a little steadier in her heels, but that might just be the makeup, making her feel braver than she actually is. She feels prettier. Bolder.

Its 12:30pm and Angel’s feeling guilty for being late now, the reality of it sinking in. Her pace is brisk, her thoughts now darting to who’s showed up…or who hasn’t for that matter. She knows most of the maintenance crew is probably going to be there, just to be somewhere other than working. Her father, Mrs. Palmer, Jonas and maybe even Janice Wilkins. …So many others to think about, yet she’s being tormented by the thought of him.

Butch might already be there or he might not, so there was really no sense is thinking too hard about it.

She shouldn’t have indulged Amata’s insistences, but her friend loved doing her makeup. She loved wearing it too. It felt special every time, because she rarely wore it at all. It made her feel older, stronger at times. This was the first time she’d been this late to anything, in a very long time.

She prided herself on punctuality and ordered routines in her life. It kept her days running smoothly and kept her sane. Needless to say, she might not have been worried the moment she’d woken up, but she was certainly worried now. With her heart fluttering in her chest, Amata’s chattering at her side, hooked on the conversation. “Are you sure you’re alright?” Angie’s teeth are grinding, her friend getting to her.

 She’s tired of answering the same questions over and over. She’s not enjoying the already stressful walk to the diner, being made even more harrowing. She’s fine. She doesn’t care what Butch has to say, because she’s still going to be fine whether he ruins today or not. She’s not hoping for anything better from him, she swears she isn’t.

Angel’s heart tries to stutter, when they’re walking down the hallway that the diner’s on. It looks different when it’s not past curfew. Brighter…more cheerful. It’s a strange contradiction, but somehow, she liked it better in the dark. She liked the diner better in the dark…she liked Butch better too.

When he was alone with her and being… she hated that she liked what he was offering her last night. She hated that she hoped he was there waiting for her with everyone else. She hated the pieces of her, which wished he’d look at her smiling more, instead of sneering. An intensely negative feeling towards every bit of weakness inside her, which wanted him to mean it- that he was sorry. That he didn’t hate her, that maybe he could even be someone fun to be around…the part of her that wanted what she feared to reach for- what she couldn’t stand about herself.

Nothing he could do or say, would ever be worse than what she did to herself, by expecting more from him.

…and she had her clinic duties to worry about anyway.

Her voice is biting, leaving Amata with a sour face. “Will you stop asking me that?! I’m sure of only one thing right now and that’s the fact, that we’re late. We’re late and I don’t care if he’s coming or not…I already told you. He was probably lying or drunk anyway…” She hears many voices up ahead, as the closed blinds of the diner approach fast. Amata’s arm is looped with hers and as much as she refuses to admit it, her friend’s company has her walking taller, offering her comfort in the midst of her frenzied thoughts. Angie’s pulse is pounding and it’s the first time she’s felt this anxious in a while. Someone’s telling everyone to pipe down beyond the door.

She makes it out as Uncle Jonas’s voice and she forgets to scowl, laughing a little at his candor. She’d have covered it with her hand, but Amata’s stopping her before she can smear her lipstick. Now Amata’s got her hand in hers, giving her a soft smile and a reassuring squeeze of her fingers, arm and arm with her. The weight of the situation, finally seems to dawn on her. Today, she’s 17.

She’s one step closer to being an adult, though she feels like one already most days. She doesn’t know how to feel at first, but it’s almost as if terror strikes her, making her go numb. People expecting her to marry, “procreation is your civic duty” and all that, but more than that, they’ll be counting on her to keep everyone in the vault alive. She’s thought of it more than once, her future and the things expected of her, of everyone her age. The same thing every day, easy and well thought out, her life like an old movie on repeat.

Her clinic duties are looking to be only one mark on the list of her expected “duties”, which will consume her future.

She’s staring at the diner door and in that moment, the routines that comforted her? The nights spent on paperwork and the days off she spent reading or simply escaping into a good vinyl? The thoughts that once brought her peace as a child… feel like a prison. She feels it crashing in on her now, at the worst moment. She’s stubborn though.

So, she puts it on the back burner, saving the future panic for a private moment, when she’s alone. She’s taking a breath, feeling as if she’s saying goodbye to a part of herself, which she didn’t even know was leaving her behind. Her chin up, as she takes her hand out of Amata’s hold and opens the door, her palm ghosting quickly over the door’s “open” panel. The first thing she notices, is a blinding camera flash that takes her back to being 10 years old, in one big white fog. Her father’s voice, scolding whoever took the photo with a laugh. “You’ve blinded her again. Honestly. Poor girl’s going to need glasses one day if this keeps up every year.”

She’s almost tempted to rub her eyes clear, but catches herself before she turns into a prewar raccoon. Instead, she’s blinking rapidly to dissipate the white spots she’s seeing and as the diner’s patrons come into view, her heart’s fluttering. Her father’s presence is to her left, his face kind, while Amata is guiding her forward by the small of her back. She was right. The diner is packed and since she’s not a child anymore, most of the guests are drinking.

It can’t just be the maintenance team here though- there’s just too many faces!

Every booth is filled, even the back door leading into the atrium is open, guests crowded around a few picnic tables and blankets. She’s shocked that so many people showed up. It’s too shocking. If that weren’t enough to stop her heart, everyone’s eyes are on her, with her only solid grounding being Amata’s voice, whispering in her ear. “…Angel…in the corner…on your right.” Her eyes sift over the many men and women, most of them from engineering and maintenance, also many other’s she’s not quite sure of.

When low and behold, she’s sure her eyes go wider. It was one thing to **say** he’d show up and another entirely, for him show up…looking like **that**. She feels her face go hot and anger rises in her, confused and biting at her heartstrings. He wasn’t lying about crashing, but whether he had something worse planned for her, was still yet to be seen. Forgetting her bearings, she’s about to unthinkingly stomp over there, and demand to know why he’s suddenly so keen on being her friend.

She’s ready to forget everyone else, just to yell at Deloria. Go figure. The boy was always the only one who barely had to push at her, to get her to snap. With most other’s she was cool head, collected…never with Butch though. There was just something about him, beyond the bullying, the name calling and the tugging on her pigtails, which just made her… _irritated_.

Her father’s arms are around her faster than she can start walking, however. Then out from behind her father, she’s seeing Butch’s unmistakably dark and overly greased up hair…and he sees her too alright. The moment they lock eyes, she’s finding it hard to stay cold, to keep her composure, and she’s wishing she could simply turn her full attention on Amata. Which is most likely, exactly what she’ll do. Her father’s warmth is comforting, though he’s oblivious to the… not one Tunnel Snake, but the **two** who are now whispering to each other beside the jukebox. Her father’s voice is in her ear, kind and full of fatherly concern, her thoughts immediately attempting to form an escape plan in her mind. “There you are, Darling! So glad you could join us.”

Her father’s pulling away from her, looking down at her with a lamenting smile. “I know you’re fonder of intimate gatherings. Stanley hadn’t the chance to celebrate his birthday last month. So, it appears you’ll be sharing your party with him.” She wasn’t just sharing it with Stanley. She was sharing it with half of 101’s full population it seemed. She was also sharing it with someone, who’d have made her incredibly claustrophobic, even if it was only him there in the room with her. Though if Butch behaved here in front of everyone like he had last night… -oh it’s worse than if he acted like he had the last time he attended one of her birthday parties.

Would have been “Nosebleed” all over again, if she hadn’t of been so fast, the last time.

Angie’s eyes are still stuck on the Snakes in the room looking her way. Her father’s words hit her slowly, her eyes dragging off of the tall, dark and overly dressed bully, to acknowledge her father’s unspoken apology. “Huh? Oh. No, no, Dad! This is perfect…everyone looks so-“Her eyes flicker to a loud, very easy to name voice, booming up from behind her father’s back. “-Happy Birthday, to you!” Even her father’s eyes are registering with surprise, as he turns to look over his shoulder. Butch is grinning from ear to ear, clearly not hiding himself from anyone.

Making it very clear that he’s there, at her party. Not a lick of shame or worry to his voice…or to his face it seemed. She knows she must be looking at him like he’s grown 2 extra heads, because he must be crazy. Mr. King of The Tunnel Snakes, wouldn’t be caught dead at her party…who was he trying to impress? Oh but it’s clear as day, that he’s trying to impress **her** …and that’s something he’s NEVER done before.

With the way he winks right at her… oh she doesn’t like that.

She feels her face get hot and it only makes her angry, that’s it’s not just anger making her go red.

It’s almost enough to have her wanting to believe, that he’s not the person she thought he was. Or maybe he’s just been drinking too much with everyone else, breaking the rules again, and being a blowhard. She’s sure her mouth must be open dumbly, Amata having gone silent behind her. The way Butch’s standing, he truly sticks out like a thumbtack in a box of rubber bands. She watches him give Paul Hannon a nudge, her heart trying to rebel on her.

She can’t help being curious about him now, when he’s not hiding away from everyone in the corner. Shouting over the crowd, cheering for her ears and everyone else’s’ to catch like he didn’t have a worry at all about who saw him. She’s curious and it’s not fair, that he’s picked today to play with her this way. He must be joking, he must be. She’s starting to fear what she might agree to if he’s not…

She’s got no idea what’s on Butch’s mind, but he’s dragged Paul into it too. She’s tempted to feel… moved by the gesture, which she’s watching unfold before her. Paul’s shrugging, yelling over the crowd again. “Happy Birthday, to you!” The 2nd Snake’s deep voice, loud enough to be heard well past the crowd, even into the atrium. Angel’s actually startled by it, enough to jump a little.

It’s enough to have the diner’s roar go silent.

It’s dead quiet then, as Angie’s brain starts racing with anxiety. Till Amata’s voice has her jolting once more, loud and clear, too close to her ear, but it’s a friendly voice at least. “Happy Birthday, Dear Angel!” Her father’s looking from the boys, to her and giving her a curious look, when in the quiet, Butch seems to take command of the entire room. She’s looking at him like he’s crazy, because it’s crazy how…how sweet the sentiment is. He’s riling them all up just for her…the whole diner and beyond.

There’s a looming presence about him today, which everyone seems to take notice of. The way he’s carrying himself, his posture is carefully careless. His shoulder’s back, his stance so relaxed, it just doesn’t fit. He’s always trying too hard to look aloof or as if he could care less about anyone around him. There’s a substance to the way he’s standing, the eyes he’s got for her, that adds weight to what he’s saying- it has everyone **wanting** to listen to him for once.

It’s as if it’s coming naturally to him, right out of the blue, grabbing everyone’s attention, not a care or a stutter. Something’s off about him, different…warmer. His eyes locked on hers for a good while, before his voice… deep, steady, and enthusiastic, seems to rumble into her chest. “Everybody! On three! 1. 2. 3-“Angie’s never really cared about how many people showed up to her previous birthdays. She’s always really loved being able to spend it, just with the people she loves the most.

…but when an entire room is cheering for you? When someone you thought hated you is giving you eyes like that? You’d been reeling too. She’s never hated Deloria, never enough to wish him dead and yet, she’s refused to like him…because if he was even a little bit nicer, she just might fall for what all the other girls did. Her hearts clenching with mixed feelings, all the good and the bad of her current situation culminating almost painfully in her ribcage.

Her hands come up to clutch at her heart and she’s genuinely touched, so moved it’s frightening. Someone’s got a harmonica and people who she’s never met before, everyone drunk or just joyful enough to seem that way, starts to sing. “Happy Birthday to you!” She didn’t think she’d like this many people overcrowding and staring at her…part of her doesn’t. Yet the half of her that does, is the half where all she feels from them…is a sense of comradery and community. She sees a collection of people who see her as their own and she belongs for once.

Cheering her on to adulthood, giving her hope for the future in 101, where before it might have been nothing but bleak. “Happy birthday, to you!”

There were good people here. She’s almost wanting to cry…so she does a little, just a watering at the edges of her vision. Nothing could ruin this feeling…till she catches herself, catches her heart trying to melt. Butch is the reason why they’re cheering, not her. He simply instigated it, most likely just for the thrill of getting a crowd going.

Her eyes find her father’s smiling face, as she tries to focus on him instead.

He’s singing too and if it were only him singing? Well she’d have been alright with that too, because at least she know she father means it. She was looking to him to steady herself, because it was all truly overwhelming, the noise and the lively atmosphere. Her eyes dart to the jukebox again and there’s the culprit, the snake in the grass. She can only think one thought and that’s: _‘Why…? Why are you doing this? Why now, Deloria?’_

Her heart’s fluttering, because he **still** hasn’t stopped looking her way. He’s still staring, smiling…and she knows he has NEVER looked at her like that before. She’s shaking her head, floored and still confused by his behavior. Her Father’s coming around to put his arm around her shoulders, Amata flanking her other side, joining arms with her again. When the birthday song crescendo’s she’s giggling and unable not to, because half of everyone is saying her name and the other half is saying Stanley’s.

 

    “Happy birthday, Dear Evangeline!”

“Happy birthday, Dear Stanley!”

“Happy birthday, Dear Angel!”

“Happy birthday, Dear Stan!”

“Happy birthday, Dear YOUUU!”

 

The cacophony of names, leaves her unable not to laugh, almost hysterically. She didn’t think she’d be this happy today…but it’s more than she’d ever thought to ask for. It’s almost unfair that **he** is the one who made her feel this way. She tears her eyes off of Deloria, afraid of him noticing her joy. Terrified actually.

She’s scared of letting him in…of wanting to so easily.

She thinks she’s left a lot of things behind then, but her fundamental fears still linger. Her anger. Every foul thing that he’s ever done to her, telling her she should run while she can. He’s never done anything nice for her, except maybe simply leave her alone. She doesn’t hate him though…even if he’s an asshole.

She dislikes him a lot sure, but she’s never…hated him. In her private thoughts, she does care if he ruins her party. She cares if he’s lying to her. She cares that he looks good, that his smile looks genuine, and that he’s sorry. Oh God, he’s _sorry_.

She’s more afraid of herself than anything Butch could do to her. She’s used to ignoring him most days, fights not to glare at him actually. He’s always giving her reasons to yell or scream, the only one who can really get her to. He makes her mad, makes her crazy and forces her to look at him. Sometimes though it’s nice to be able to bicker with the brute…almost normal- just another routine that’s guided her usually straightforward day.

She’s never found herself wanting to look at him more, than she does right then though. This is not normal, nor straightforward. He doesn’t go to her parties and she doesn’t go to his. He’s not supposed to say sorry or feel guilty, he never did before. So why now, even after everything he’s done, does she so desperately want to see him?

When he’s smiling instead of scowling. When he’s singing to her instead of cursing. When he’s being nice. She feels herself start to realize, that the only thing she hated about him…was that she couldn’t bring herself to hate the big, goofy, palooka. Now, she’s tempted to feel something much worse than hate.

She feels like giving him a chance.

The song comes to an end. Men and women, their voices loud and rowdy, surely reaching every part of the vault for everyone to hear in the process. “Happy Birthday, to YOU!!” Angie’s so blindsided already, both with the noise and with her own emotions that she can barely keep from crying or smiling. She doesn’t know which in that moment. The resounding cheering, catcalling, and yelling, shakes her bones, leaves her leaning more on her father than on Amata.

Her father was the one she could lean on, no matter what she was feeling or thinking. Even more so than Amata. There were some things that she couldn’t even talk to Amata about. Her father was a smart man and he knew just what to say to her, sometimes too well. She couldn’t have bared certain things without her father there to support her through them in her life.

Then something happens that nobody there in the diner expected. Sound starts bursting for the Jukebox, which has been broken for almost a year. There’s a pause, as she’s not the only one reeling from second guessing herself. She can’t help but search for his face then, her father’s voice sounding off in her ear again. “How hard did the boy hit his head again, Sweetheart?” Angie’s barking out a nervous laugh…searching for the “boy” in question.

The music’s then hitting her ears, leaving her speechless.

**_“You broke my heart…’cuz I couldn’t dance…”_ **

There he is too, all dark hair and a damningly bright smile.

**_“You didn’t even…want me around…”_ **

With his hand falling off the record number and the other in his pocket…his suit jacket pocket. The thing made his shoulder’s look too broad- made him look too well groomed. Made him look approachable, bordering on friendly even. He was crazy, she was sure. It was like he didn’t care who saw him at “The Nosebleed’s” party.

**_“…and now I’m back to let you know…”_ **

Then, her father’s saying something that ruins her courage, directly to Amata, ruining her plans to escape the fray as well. “Oh, Amata…I believe your father was asking for you. It might be better not to keep the man waiting. He sounded… agitated.” It all happens at once. Her friend’s apologizing, being forced to leave her side. Her father’s jostling her shoulders and telling her to mingle, as he goes to leave her too. His voice a dull roar in her ear, saying that “-With so many people, you might find a new friend or two.”

Her voice doesn’t come out and panic tries to hit her, when her father says he’s got to talk to Jonas about something again. He’s always talking to Jonas about something. Always leaving her alone when part of her desperately needs more time with him- when she wants to lean on him more. Now, she just needs him to keep Butch from- oh god, there the devil is walking right for her, all purpose and no shame. For the first time…she’s actually running away from the challenge Butch is offering, right as the song truly begins.

**_“…I can really shake ‘em down.”_ **

She can’t catch her balance because of the stupid heels, which she really had no experience in wearing- she was beginning to regret wearing them. Of course as the song bursts out, everyone else seems to lose their minds and then it’s even harder not to trip. She honestly isn’t used to so many- there’s so many people! She can’t breathe and both her father, her best friend too, have abandoned her without meaning to. She’s tripping through bodies, because everyone and their cousin, has decided to leap up and attempt to dance in the aisle.

It’s not every day the Jukebox is actually in working order.

She thinks it to the singer with a head rush, desperately trying to keep close to the bar, Andy serving drinks instead of food now. _‘No…no damn you, I do not love you right now!’_ The song’s gotten everyone so wild, that she can barely walk without running smack dab into dancers, which maybe she would have enjoyed…if a Snake wasn’t slithering right for her, somewhere in the chaos. This must have been his plan all along. He was going to do something awful when she was at her weakest- when everyone was too distracted to notice.

She’s rounding the corner of the bar, knocking into many people wishing her quite a few slurred “Happy Birthday’s”. She’s now managed to make it around the bar’s corner, when much to her displeasure, she’s shoved away from the bar by a rather pushy couple. Right into the crowd of unfamiliar faces, she’s being tossed. The world seems like its spinning and she’s surely not going to be having a very happy birthday at all.

Finally, her legs seem to give out on her, when someone grazes her foot with theirs. She’s falling and there’s this very deep feeling of, _‘What did you expect, Angie?’_ going through her mind. She’s falling…till someone’s hands are catching her. She’s stumbled into a very solid chest and of all the people she could have run into, it’s her luck that it was the one person, which she was trying to run from. Deloria’s presence is suddenly all around her, his hands on her bare arms, her hands caught on his sturdy shoulders and her body anchored upright by his.

His voice is in her ear and it’s all that she can even process anymore, as everything else just falls out of her focus. “Careful, careful now. Butch’s gotcha, Sweetheart. …don’t you look cute, tripping around everywhere? What’re you rushing away for?” Her senses are shot to hell and all she feels is how solid, warm, big and tall he is. His breath is hot in her ear and his hands are holding her, like he’s actually afraid of breaking her for once. She’s used to him being too close…but not like this. Not with all those nice words, those careful hands, and that too familiar smell of his cologne.

She’s not used to this Butch at all.

Her face is hovering far too intimately close to the curve of his throat and her legs are shaking, because… heels are stupid and that’s all there is to it. She’s suffocating in how utterly close he is and her voice is soft, twisted up and mortifyingly pitchy. “Are you stupid- why do you think I’m running? –you were coming right for me! Don’t…Don’t you make fun of me, you b-big…big…” She’s got her palms on his chest now, the heat of his heartbeat, has her heart hammering so wildly, she feels as if she might pass out. He’s big alright. He’s still taller than her too, even in 3 inch heels.

As if the encounter couldn’t get any more mind shattering, the way he _laughs_ against her ear. It’s not… mean in the least or like any laugh she has EVER heard out of him. It’s husky, attractive. The way he laughs right then, is a laugh that he shouldn’t be able to get to her with so very easily, so out of the blue. “Awe, don’t be scared…I’m not, Ange’! Promise. …You can’t really walk in those can you can ya though? Weren’t for me bet you’d be on the floor...” He’s lying, because he’s very clearly laughing at her.

She’s pushing away from him, her heartbeat slowing a bit. It’s easier for her to put all her focus into simply talking back to him, than on the throng of strangers shoved into the diner. He doesn’t even try to stop her, which she almost wishes he would have…in the part of her brain that was tempted to sink into his warmth without questioning her sanity. Her hands are shaking, now able to look the unpredictable greaser in the eyes and feeling all her venom, dropping right out from under her. His expression is so sweet and gentle, that it has her words coming out all wrong. “Why are you doing this?”

His smile’s too kind and there’s this look in his eyes, which says he knows exactly what he’s doing. He shouldn’t know how to do it so well either, because she sure doesn’t. He’s laughing at her alright, but there’s something affectionate in the way he does, belittling almost…annoying. “What am I doin’, huh, Doll?” She’s opening her mouth, but as she goes to tell him, “Causing a scene and pretending like you feel bad about-“he’s suddenly knocking forward into her. Then she’s stumbling back towards the bar.

If she thought he was too close before, she didn’t think someone would shove him from behind. Of course his first instinct, was to wrap one of his arms around her middle. To coil it around her and trap her with his fingers splayed on the small of her back, while his other hand’s now braced on the bar counter. His duck-tail’s falling into his eyes, his expression intense, clearly annoyed at being shoved himself…his eyes searching hers. The moment is intense, intimate and altogether with the noise, the dancers and the strangers, her fingers tighten into the fabric on his shoulders just to steady her footing.

She’s not put off by him, or not as much as she should be. Her head’s swimming, confusion mingling with emotions she’s too afraid to try to name. He’s handsome, he’s never been ugly…only on the instead. But when he’s giving her the brightest, most genuine grin without warning, and his eyes light up just because he seems to like being close to her? She hears the words “teen heartthrob” trying to sink into her brain without her consent.

He hangs his head for a moment, still smiling, breaking the eye contact, his palm still flat against her spine. His hips are brushing against hers and he’s leaning over her, like he’s caging her there- yet he’s so relaxed and it’s all she can do to keep from thinking of how their bodies fit together so nicely. She’s shoving him away a little more roughly than she’d meant to, but he barely budges. Till he notices her pushing and then he…he looks concerned? Then he does the one thing he’s never done, when she’s tried to shove him away.

He lets her. Well…almost. She feels him push up off the bar and then he’s straightening them both, looking over his shoulder, his hips no longer hitting up against hers. She wonders if it’s out of nerves that he’s looking behind him, but as she feels his fingers flex on her back, she sees the face he’s making. It’s a look of a protective nature and the way his other hand goes to her shoulder to steady her, is sweet in its intention.

He’s putting himself between her and the roiling aisle, giving her a little breathing room as he does so. Like it’s not a huge deal that he’s doing what he is. She can’t hardly breathe, when his eyes are back on hers, his touch dragging off her bare shoulder, though the cheeky devil has his other hand stuck on her waist now. His voice is filled with what can’t be what it is…he’s worrying over her, his eyes looking down at her feet. His voice doing a number on her insides. “Didn’t get you did I? You okie, Angie? …it’s fuckin’ packed in here. Didn’t I tell you last night, that I wanted to make you smile? Unless you’re looking for trouble?”

She’s speechless and can only really stand there staring at him. When his eyes meet hers, the air of confidence and odd possessiveness he’s displaying, is impossible to miss. She’s fairly good at reading him, but she’s afraid of the story he’s telling her now. His voice isn’t mean in the least, it’s damn near affectionate. “Honey… you’re tripping all over my heart in that dress, heh. You know that? Nah, you ain’t got a clue…nope…” She feels a sadness in his stare that almost repulses her, something deep and dark that she’d never expect to see in him.

As quickly as it is there though it’s gone and he’s chuckling, reaching into his pocket for something. He’s still touching her waist, with a firm and careless grip, like it’s the most natural thing in the world for him to be doing. She’s still yet to speak up, but when he says what he does, it seems to bring her back to her senses. “Got ya something for once- cuz I never give you anything but a headache most days, don’t I? …Happy Birthday, Pipsqueak!” She blinks, then finally, her personality seems to catch up with her stuttering, stupid, racing heart. Her words rushed and more than a little stern with him. “Now you listen to me, Deloria.  Just because you’re not completely ruining today- it doesn’t give you the right to just act like I’m gonna be fine with you- with your hands on-“

Before she can finish, he’s got a piece of paper folded in his hand and his face is…understanding? Calm? Who the hell is this person? Deloria’s not here anymore…whoever’s standing in front of her is far more dangerous. She looks from the paper, then back up to the boy who’s shaken her up so bad.

She’s huffing at him, because he’s only ever **taken** things from her. Her rations, her valuable time in the halls, her patience…he’s never _given_ anything to her before. She’s taking it, the protest in her mouth being stolen from her, as he talks real low, for only her to hear. “I hear you, Ange’… I know it’s not enough to make up for everything I’ve ever done to you…” She’s taking what proves to be a birthday card into her fingers and his face is so…honest. He’s making a joke at his own expense, her own expression tight or maybe just analytical. “I’m a real asshole you know? Didn’t know if you noticed- I mean hell, but this’ll be a start at something right? “‘m sorry”, just won’t cut it…believe me I get that…”

She’s swallowing thickly, unable to escape the weight on her chest. She looks at the plain, yet neat cursive… the “Happy Birthday” on the cover in his handwriting. She can’t help but think that for a guy with such big hands, someone who acts like a bull in a china shop, that his handwriting is actually quite pretty. She can’t help making a stab at him, because if he’s serious…she’s not going to make it easy on him, even if he’s being truthful with her. “…Yeah, you are an asshole and yeah, everyone’s noticed. Don’t know why you’d ruin such a perfect record now…” She’s sure he’ll say something mean back.

He would have before. He’d have snapped at her or said something ever meaner. She’s expecting that, because it’s both an excuse not to let him in and also, just something familiar about their relationship, which she can cling too. She’s feeling him squeeze her waist, tight enough to make her jump a littler. He’s laughing again, that too damn attractive laugh, husky and then…oh the nickname is very familiar.

It’s the tone in which it rolls off his tongue, that’s got a very unwanted fire trying to kindle up inside her belly- that’s what’s not familiar to her in the least. She’s looking up from his card in her hands, only to catch his breath mingling with hers and a set of blue eyes so dark, she can’t look past them to see what’s on his mind. He’d leaned so close, she hadn’t even felt him do it, swift and deadly. His words are against her mouth and one wrong move, one bump or shove, and she’d have been locked in a kiss with him. A kiss that she’s not sure she would have rejected, not with the voice that’s spilling out of his lips. “Fuckin’ Smart Mouth…”

Her breath catches, the song’s changing and her pupils must be dilated with… she’s swallowing hard, turning away from him. She’s looking hard at the card and she’s growling at him, on edge. “We…need to have a talk about personal space…”She watches, as one of his hands comes up to circle around one of her wrists, the hand holding the card belonging to the one he chooses. She lets him and she’s not sure why…maybe it’s just because of how softly he curls his fingers around it. Or maybe it’s just the soft way his voice seems to curl around the ice she has in her heart for him. “...there’s a lot I want to talk to you about, Angel… what? Not making you…nervous am I?”

She’s falling for it too, that soft undertone in his words. Her eyes flicker up to his, her head incline downward, still afraid of how closely his breath is dancing with hers. Her voice is cold, forced steel, because anything less and she’d have been one dumb blonde alright. “Like hell you are. Talk then, Butch. Hurry up and just talk.” She feels his fingers tighten on her wrist, but not nearly as tightly as they should have. She can’t believe that he’s not being pushed over the edge so easily anymore.

He’s patient with her and it’s trying hers, because she can’t be angry at someone, who’s not already angry with her. He’s scoffing, still too damn good natured in how he’s talking to her. “How about you open that up and read it… if you want to hear what I have to say so badly, girl?” She’s a little blown away. He’s teasing her, but it’s not mean…it still makes her angry though. She’s tugging her wrist out of his hold, grumbling and edgy, the party around them still thriving. “You’re the one who’s chasing me! …acting so weird now- being nice… standing too close…-playing things like you’re sorry…”

She’s turning the card over. It’s blank on the back, just the simple cursive in the front. Frankly, it doesn’t appear like he put much effort into the card at all. She’s well aware of his hand that’s still on the curve of her waist, but she doesn’t tell him to take it off her. She just decides to open the card and see what is probably just another blank-

…

-She’s in awe of what she’s seeing. Her fingers bunch up the corners of the unfolded pages and her heart’s skipping on her. The words are very simple… but he’s pretty simply- or so she’s always thought. _“Happy Birthday, Pipsqueak! Sorry for being an asshole…hope you’re birthday isn’t shitty. Let’s try to play nice more? Ok?”_ It’s simple alright, the words on the one side. It’s what’s staring at her from the other page, that’s the **last** thing from simple.

She never knew that he could draw so well…he never seemed the type. His voice is in her ears and for the first time, he sounds shy… insecure like he normally is. “It’s uh… I know it’s not much… but I’m not lying to you. I don’t want to fight with you anymore… can you at least trust me that much? ‘s all I’m asking. I promise it’s the truth.” her fingers are now touching the page, the drawing there. It’s all in grey pencil, well shaded and so very lifelike. It’s her and yet…it’s not.

She’s smiling, in a dress she’s never worn before, sitting against the tree on the hill in the atrium it looks like. Every detail is well thought out and carefully put down onto the page. He tried very hard to capture the shading in her eyes, the expression she’s wearing, the happiest she’s ever seen herself. She even wonders what she’s thinking in the picture, to look so very at peace. She can’t help herself, as she speaks with such clear wonderment. “My god…this is beautiful…”

He’s too damn smooth, the line falling on her like a ton of bricks. “…Course it is…it’s you.” Her eyes meet his and her face is probably covered in vulnerabilities she wishes weren’t there. He notices it too. However, when he does, instead of calling her out on them, or saying something arrogant…he’s got a smile for her, that’s sweeter than it should be allowed to convey. She’s clearing her throat and her words are tactless. “Stop that… talking like that.”

He’s reminding her of the hold he’s got on her waist, by shaking it, being playful with her. “I’ll stop talking when you stop listening, how about that?” He’s **playing** with her in an overly…easy kind of way. Joking with her lightly, while his free hand’s going to rub the back of his neck…like he’s actually anxious or something. “You uh… you’re smiling though right? I think you like me talking almost as much as I do…” She’s not quite sure what to say to that. She’s glaring at him though, because she can’t stand what he says to her usually and she’s not afraid to say it to him. “All you ever give me are insults, Butch… and I’ve never enjoyed it once. Or you. Or anything you’ve said to me.”

She watches his face go from a lighthearted smile to…oh. His eyes seemed to go wide and it’s like she’d slapped him. She’s…never seen him get upset like this before. He’s not angry at her…no it’s worse. His smile falls and it’s small, sad.

He’s nodding his head and his hand is falling off her waist. She’s shocked at how much he’d been keeping her upright and she hadn’t realized, just how much she’d actually been leaning into his touch. She’d swore she didn’t care if he came today or not, promised herself that she’d rather he didn’t. His voice is much less confident, sullen even. “…I guess it’s real dumb for me to think that one nice thing is gonna change your mind…” She’d thought, even as she saw him in the corner, that she’d have been happier if he’d have just left.

…but now that he’s got that damn sad look in his eyes? Showing her a heart that she’s never seen in him, this part of himself that she just can’t help wanting to see more of? Oh, she wants him to stay…it’s a scary truth, but as she watches him shrug like he’s at a loss, that’s what she comes to terms with. He’s shaking his head at her, laughing at himself again. “And you ain’t dumb…”

Her heart’s doing somersaults and her stomach’s flipping over itself, when he starts to turn into the crowd she goes into a panic. His voice still loud enough where only she can hear, his words still honest, unfairly so. “…I uh, won’t be an eyesore. Sorry for crashing, but I really… I wanna know you better. And I hope you know… that in that card there? …that’s what I see whenever I see you…in the halls or whenever you walk by. I hope you know I’m sorry… Happy Birthday, again. I’ll give you more time…” She shouldn’t feel bad, but she does. She’s got plenty of good and valid reasons to hate him, but she doesn’t.

And when he’s turning to leave her standing there, she shouldn’t reach out to grab his sleeve, but she does. She doesn’t know what she’s doing, but she sure thinks she’s dumb alright. She shouldn’t feel safe with him at all, but in the crowded room, he makes her feel like it’s only them. It’s easier when it’s just the two of them. It better when it’s just the two of them.

He feels her stop him and she’s just as shocked as he is really. She’s huffing, breathing erratically, pulling a reason to keep him there out of thin air. “You said you’d dance with me!” His eyebrows are scrunching together, like he didn’t hear her and when he’s turning back to her swiftly, he’s leaning close again. His voice is gentle, like she didn’t just say something heartless to him. “…yeah, what’s wrong?” She’s saying it to him, feeling smaller with him than she ever has. “…oh god, everything’s wrong.”

He’s giving her this weird, endearing look again and she’s repeating herself, sharply, afraid she’ll chicken out before the words leave her. “…I thought you said you’d dance with me. You’re leaving? Just like that? Trying to get out of it?” There’s this…pause between them again. It’s the space of time where a heartbeat falls into the next. It’s a moment where love is formed and a dimension in time, that no one can really place. It’s the moment that it takes for her words to register in his ears and for him to feel like he’s the happiest man alive.

He’s tugging her towards him, knocking her off balance, but he’ll catch her so it’s ok. She sure didn’t know that though, as he’s got his hand pressing her against him, palm pressed firmly against the curve of her spine again. He’s got her hand in his so fast, she’s reeling, now wondering whether to regret it or not, his card now between his chest and her palm, where it’s fallen there to trap it. His voice is a purr against her temple that’s more than happy, more than she can really take. “You wanna dance with me, Pretty Baby? …then come on~ let’s dance.” He’s leaning back, just enough to catch her expression.

She’s blushing now, there is no way for her to even attempt to deny it. She’s dumb. She can barely walk in the shoes she’s wearing, yet she’s egging him on about _dancing_? She’s saying as much, now chest to chest with him and finding him to be… a very maddeningly pleasant fit, which she’s never noticed before. “N-Now hold on… go slow- don’t make me trip! You better not… d-don’t you trip me I swear, Deloria!” She’s waiting for him to say something.

He doesn’t though, he just smiles down at her, like she just gave him something priceless. It’s eerie to see him looking at her like that. She’s not sure how to feel about it, but… when his arm tightens around her and he presses her against his body firmly, she knows one thing. He feels like nothing but muscle and heat. It’s not… awful either.

He did it on purpose too, because he’s laughing like he knows exactly what he just made her feel. He’s leaning his head down, closer to hers, giving her heart a jerk. He’s so close, too close and too warm. His smile’s dripping off his mouth and his voice goes so hot on her, that it’s truly terrifying. “I’ve got you…don’t worry, I won’t let you go…” It’s too good and she’s sure, that she’s enjoying it too much.

She’s almost helplessly watching, as he places her hand on his other shoulder, gingerly slipping his card out from under her other one. He’s saying it only to her, low and private, like he doesn’t care who’s watching at all. “Here…I’ll hold onto it… I don’t see any pockets and I’ve been looking _real_ uh…thoroughly, too. …hard not too…” Every time he says something like that, which has been every other sentence from now since yesterday, it simply steals her composure away. Which is terrible, because she is so very used to being the level headed one out of them both. The unshakable one.

He's got her shaking with the way he’s holding her though.

She’s sure her mind’s been lost somewhere in the crowd, when suddenly, the song’s changed and it is _slow._ Her words are softer than they’ve ever been to him, but it’s only for the one moment, as he’s practically lifting her off her feet, bringing her back with him into the crowd. “…oh that’s scary, how smooth you almost sound. You’ve got to quit that…it’s not funny, Butch.” She’s being pulled into the crowd and he’s got her hand in his, as she’s trailing behind him. With a grin, he’s got his voice close enough for her hear again, as they push through the party goers. “Who’s joking?”

_“Woooah-oo-Woe-Oo-Oh~, Oh Yeaah-Ee-Yeah-Ee-Yeah~”_

He’s the only thing keeping her from being lost in the crowd, his hand so very large compared to hers. As if it couldn’t be even more uncomfortable to be touched by him, he laces his fingers together with hers, making the journey that much more heart pounding. So causal, so easily. His palm pressed against hers, leading her as they dodge between bodies. They make it to the door leading into the atrium and out under the 2nd floor’s outcropping, swiftly without much trouble.

Then…there’s an empty space for them, amongst a crowd of swaying couples, dancing in the “open air”. The smell of fresh French-fries and popcorn, is flitting just out of the diner, along with the music’s crooning melody. The floor is made of plastic styled to look like wood, her heels able to grip it a little better than the tile of the diner floor. She’d been so used to seeing the Snake on his back, she’d almost forgotten just whose hand she was holding. Till he’s…oh.

He twirls her around without warning her.

_“Oh although I love you so…oh you don’t know…”_

He spins her and then pulls her against him, so fast, it’s an almost pleasant thrill. Her hand falling on his shoulder and her other held strongly in his grasp. His arm is fit around her lower back and the weight of it, makes her feel small…fragile compared to his hulking frame. Then they’re just standing there, because she’s…she’s not sure if she can actually move without tripping. She’s looking down at their feet, to check if they’re apart or to see if she’s stepping on his boots, when she hears him snickering.

_“Oh I’m so afraid…you might not care…”_

What a jerk.

Her glare reaches him alright, but…her heart’s fluttering even as she’s snarking at him. “Well you try walking in these! See how well you do… I should have just stepped on your toes…I still don’t get how you can just act like we’re not-” She’s gasping, when he takes a step back with her being forced to follow him. Oh she follows him alright…right into his chest, she falls. Her mouth falls open and she’s breathless, because he did it on purpose. He wants her against him like this…her head and hand on his chest.

He’s a lot stronger than she thought.

His voice is so…he sounds happier than she thinks she’s heard him sound in a while. “I think they look better on you- but hey~ If it’ll get you to relax… I’ll slip ‘em on. We can trade.” Was that…a joke? She huffs out a laugh, which stops the moment it escapes her. He made her laugh- a real one. Her breath is against the side of his neck and she’s sure he felt her do it, the laugh she’d just breathed across his skin.

Butch is actually… a very nice dancer. She’s danced with her father and if she wasn’t in shoes? …she’d be able to stay upright and more- she’d dance just as nicely. She’s **is** wearing shoes however, even worse than that they’re heels, but as the music plays and he simply begins to sway with her? …she’s secretly enjoying having to hold onto him to keep steady.

She’s sighing, her voice almost defeated. “You…You think you’re funny don’t you? Turning me all around without a bit of shame…” His arm pulls her closer again and she gasps, because the longer she’s near him, the nicer it feels. His voice is in her ear, as he leans away to speak against it. “You wear them for me? That dress and those shoes?” She feels a sharp thrill of embarrassment shoot through her. She’s leaning away from him fast then, to look him in the eye.

He’s giving her room to do it too. She regrets looking him in the face then, because he’s not laughing- not at her or at all. He’s looking at her so seriously, she’s never felt so very quiet around him before. He steals her thunder and she’s swallowing hard, feeling him take another step back and expecting her to follow. He waits and she follows, her eyes now firmly on their feet for more than one reason.

She’s not sure what she’s doing. She’s only ever kissed Amata and it never felt like this when she was around her. It never felt like this when she was around **Butch** most of the time. She’s not sure what to say, but with a risky chance, she’s throwing the question back at him. She’s aware then, as they’re waltzing very simply in a circle, that it’s suddenly gotten very roomy for them. “…What about you with that suit? Those jeans look new…who are you trying to impress?”

_“Oh I wish the one with you…were me…but you don’t know…”_

She’s still staring too hard at the ground, but when she feels him leaning down, she can’t help it. Her hand curls gingerly around the side of his neck and she’s touching his skin, looking up at him. Oh, but he’d leaned too close again…his forehead’s brushing hers and she’s too lost in his heat to pull away. This must be what every girl feels like with a boy she’s fond of. She’s just so caught up in this new, exciting and different side of him, she can’t help but fall for it briefly.

She swears she’s not fond of Butch Deloria- there’s no way she is, not a chance.

He’s talking again, answering her, making her breath catch. “You.” He’s not supposed to just come out with it. He’s supposed to avoid the truth, run from it. He’s supposed to… not tell her the truth- because she just might believe him if he does. He seems so…mature all of a sudden.

_“You don’t know how hard to bare…is this one way love affair.”_

She’s looking up at him, his eyes gentle and so very dangerous. She’s got her thumb brushing his pulse point and it’s not beating nearly as hard or fast as hers is, she’s sure. She’s shaking her head, turning her head away from him, her voice so small, but she can’t find the words to reply to an answer like that. “Oh…” He’s laughing in her ear again, husky and it’s her fault for exposing herself, giving him the option. “How am I doin’?” She can’t find any words or anything clever for him, because she’s not used to being…nice to him. “…fine…”

More than fine and that wasn’t fine with her at all.

With her eyes turned off him however…she finally sees why they’ve so much room to dance around in. Everyone is staring at them. Her heart leaps into her throat and she feels like she’s been caught doing something illegal. Everyone is whispering and while some people are smiling…others are most definitely NOT. She’s pushing away from him, bringing herself back to reality and he’s lingering there, being too close. As if he couldn’t care less who’s watching him with her, like he doesn’t want to let her go…

He does though and she’s so, so very torn up over him in that moment that her voice shivers out, all twisted. “This is really different- you’re really different.” She watches his eyebrows raise and his expression is- god she wishes he’d stop looking so serious! He’s been giving her more meaningful looks between today and yesterday, than he’s even looked at her all year. Her hand followed the curve of his neck, back to his shoulder…and down to clutch at the juncture of his elbow. She tries to ignore how very _filled out_ he is, when he asks her, husky and clearly bothered. “Do you hate it?”

She wishes the answer wouldn’t have come far so quickly inside of her head. _‘No…’_ instead, she’s taking a pause out loud and reluctantly shaking her head. Stuttering- he actually has her stuttering! “I-I’ve never hated…hated you…i-if you…if you were asking me that. I didn’t hate dancing with you either…” She huffs out a breath to let go of her nerves with him, her eyes darting to all the ones on them. She’s taking his wrist in her grip and dragging him back into the diner, which has emptied out quite a bit.

Walking isn’t quite as hard now, with him behind her.

She gets into the eatery with him and sees why too. The Overseer has come to break up all the fun, Amata sulking at his side. She’s scowling and turning around to address the boy…who’s not nearly as childish as he normally is. She’s caught on his smile again and he needs to stop smiling at her so much, or she’ll really lose her marbles. Her voice is steady now at least. “I’ll give you chance if you really want one, but don’t think I’m just going to fall at your feet.”

His shoulders shrug and suddenly- oh that’s a face she knows at least. It’s sly and teasing, his voice tugging at her heart again, so smooth and goofy. “Well, you almost did a few times. Oh, I sure didn’t mind though, Angie. I like catching you…sure’s better than knocking you down- but uh…I think I’d like that too. Knocking you down.” He waggles his eyebrows and she laughs a bark of a laugh that sneaks up on her. She’s seeing Amata beside her father attempting to slink away and Amata’s already looking their way, as she does so. Oh God…she looks flabbergasted to see who she’s next to.

She’s holding out her hand, surely blushing and asking for…for the card back. “I’d like my card back…if you don’t mind.” His face lights up and she can’t believe how much he’s getting to her. He never smiles or acts so nice…maybe that’s why. Its nuts, the whole day is just one big unreal ball of impossible. He’s taking it out of his pocket and his fingers brush hers, when she’s taking it back.

She looks so pretty with those red lips of hers…

He’s been counting every moment, every little touch and every tiny bit of trust she’s given him today. The moment she walked in, his heart just tumbled over itself. That dress she was in made her eyes bluer, her young face so full of life. His thoughts had been with Paul and on Dr. Blackwell, till in she walked in with that shocked face in the camera’s flash. He’s too quick to flirt with her, too eager to make her blush for him.

He can’t help it, he can’t take it, and he just wants to eat up all of her spare time. He’s brushing her fingers deliberately as he give back the card, which he should have put more effort into. Yet…she loved it. Something so small. Boy, if only he’d have known she would have loved it way back when.

He’s already seen the Overseer standing by the hallway door and he’s not looking to speak with the man. Butch knew a Molerat when he saw one and he didn’t much care for them, unless he was cutting them up for stew. His eyes flicker off and take note of who’s off near the other hallway door. James looks just like he did, tall and smart and Jonas…well, he’s just as alive as the doctors. Butch feels his heart panging for the love of his life, her little blush too cute and her youth showing too much.

God, he feels dirty, but she’s pretty and he’s got a lot of wild in him now. He always has, but when she’s got his card to her breast, his eyes trace every curve of her. Her shoulders are small, pretty and pale. She’s so pale. He is too now, but she’s always been of a fair complexion- much lighter than his skin, pretty to look at against his.

He says it while wishing he could talk with her forever. “The Daddy’s Girl over there is looking too hard. Better leave now or she’s gonna kill me with that fuckin’ look.” He’s got his hands in his jean pockets now, keeping his eyes on the Overseer and on James all at once. Yet, she’s still all that’s on his mind, when she speaks up, her voice always the first he’ll listen to over everyone’s. “We’ll see how nice you are when everyone thinks you’ve gone soft. Did you even think this through, before you just decided to…show up today?” His eyes are back on her and he feels gentle towards her.

He really has gone soft…only for her though. He’s being honest with her, because he knows she’s the only girl he can be honest with. “I think about you a lot, Angie…yeah. I thought it through alright…what are you thinking about though?” He fixes her with a funny grin, till he sees James and Jonas separating. James is walking out in the hallway, while Jonas stays right where he is, sipping on his drink. Butch takes one look at the Overseer who’s just taking a seat in one of the booths and right then he knows.

It’s now or never. The Overseer’ll be occupied and everyone’s either here or working in the lower levels now. His eyes are back on the little blonde, whose feet are shuffling in front of him. She’s opening her mouth to answer and he hates to interrupt her, but he’s got no choice now. He’s doing it without thinking, stepping forward and acting like he’s married to her still.

He puts a hand on one of her arms and palms the softness of her cheek into his hand. He tilted her startled face up to him and he’s shocked at her surprise, when he shouldn’t be. They aren’t married and he’s still on thin ice with her right now. He’s glancing at Almodovar’s Daughter and notices the girl’s glare towards him, rolling his eyes at her snooty face, over his wife-to-be’s head. More quickly than Angel can stop him or push him away, he’s looking her in those sky blue eyes of hers, falling into them, giving her a rushed and reluctant goodbye. “Hold that thought for me? …Come find me. I’ll be waiting for you.”

Angie’s like a rad-doe caught in headlights and he’s mean alright, he knows it. She’s probably never…no she hasn’t. He was her first time, her first love…she was the first and last of his whole world too- every precious moment he had to cling to with her, both her body and her sweet soul, she was his everything. He’s getting a thrill from making her look so turned upside down, but he knows he’s probably pushing his luck a little with her too much. So, before she can say much he’s letting her go and putting his hands back in his pockets.

Angie finds her voice again and he’s biting his lip not to smile at the way she tells him off. “You’ll be waiting a while!” He’s chuckling at her, thinking that she’s…wow she’s cute. She’s so young and full of fire. He might have been angry before, when he was just as immature as she was now… oh, but how much mature she’d be one day. He can’t be mad at her though, because all he sees right then, is a young girl whose got this pretty pout on her mouth.

She’s so innocent it just plain hurts. He’s laughing at her without meaning too, sure that his eyes are looking toward the door too much. He says it just to make her miss him a little. “Well, maybe I think you’re worth waiting for? I promise I will be…” He’s shrugging and clearing his throat, feeling a little silly, but he wants her to know he’s being real with her. “…but I’ll be back in a few minutes. So… so don’t go anywhere? Please?” He watches her face twist up in surprise again and he wonders why, till she says what’s on her mind. “Well if you say please like that… -God, you have a lot of explaining to do. …starting with… with where Susie is today? How about that?”

Butch nods, understanding where she’s coming from. His heart’s melting on him too, because she’s jealous and he thinks it’s adorable. He’s laughing and finally making his way toward the door, watching her scowling at him as he goes. He calls behind his shoulder, but he plans to give her a full day of explaining alright…the girl’s too damn smart for her own good. “You really know how to bust my balls don’t you, Angie?” He’s rubbing the back of his neck, so excited he’s sure he’s blushing…till he makes it into the hallway.

Then his smile falls off like a stone.

He feels for the chip in his pocket. Yup. Still there. There’s still a burden on his back that he can’t shake, he can’t afford to. He’s looking to his left and low and behold, there’s James’s coattail rounding the corner.

He’s played the young stallion for long enough. Now it’s time to be the man he’s fought so hard to be. He’s walking after James with a cold look he’s sure, because with the things he knows weighing in his head, there’s nothing funny or happy about any of it. He’s reaching at his hip in reflex…but there’s no gun there. A nervous tick, from a dangerous life.

He’s gaining on the man, as he rounds the corner. James’s back is to him, his eyes on a stack of folders, but he hears him coming, Butch can tell. Butch can’t help but smirk a little smugly at the man, because it’s the slightest tilt of his head, which gives the doctor away. Evangeline’s Old Man had her shooting targets, long before there was ever a war for her to fight. So Butch can’t help being curious, as to whether James Blackwell would be just as deadly as his daughter was with a gun.

Butch calls to him like a man would instead of a boy and he catches himself too late. “James.” Butch winces, because he’s sure he wasn’t being very respectful and when Dr. Blackwell turns to look at him…well Butch hated being right sometimes. Blackwell’s looking him up and down, his voice neutral, with a clearly displeased undertone. “Is there something you need… **Butch**?” The man puts clear emphasis on his name, to where it sure almost sounds like “asshole” instead. Butch is almost tempted to look sheepish, but he just doesn’t feel it.

He’s fucking 32 and he’s earned first name basis with anyone he wants, damn it.

He’s rubbing the chip in his pocket for reassurance. It was easy to get lost in Angel’s arms. Easy to forget with the music flowing, dancing with her. Faced with the only man who could possibly understand the math and the coding well enough, to crack the Time-Flux shield’s science Butch couldn’t afford to forget. James Blackwell, could very well be their only hope at getting ahead of The Enclave.

So, he approaches James with an honest to god plea. “There’s some things I want to talk to you about… if you have the time?” James was always a patient man and Butch would know. After being treated by him for the same wounds and the same mistakes over and over again? James was a fucking saint and patience was his virtue…go figure. Whatever the man had been discussing with Jonas however, seemed to have made his bottomless pit of pure endurance, run dry.

So, he’s smiling a predatory smile and giving him a very clear signal of finality. “I’m afraid now’s not a very good time… but stop by the clinic later and I’ll have a look at you.” Butch can’t help but feel…intimidated by the man. He’s dangerous alright. Makes him want to shiver just as much as he wants to smile about it. He doesn’t have room for a “no” right now though.

So, Butch decides to play dirty and thinks about something, the doctor has to stop everything to talk about. He’s walking closer to his long-dead father-in-law, his voice serious as he baits the doctor. “It’s about your daughter…” He pauses and decides to tack on a little, “…sir.” As a sign of respect. Immediately, Butch knows he’s made an error in judgement however.

James Blackwell was a Waster through and through. He literally crossed a desert just so his daughter might be able to have a better life. He died to keep her alive. …Butch wasn’t always very nice to his daughter. The thought occurs to him that he’s stepped on a land mine, as James dark eyes go even darker.

His smile more of a threat than a sign of good will. Dr. Blackwell’s voice is full of forced politeness, regal with a killing undertone. “I think it would be best for you to observe, Mr. Deloria, that we are alone.” Butch’s eyes search the older man’s and he’s got a feeling that he’s staring down a behemoth, which he’s just prodded with a missile. Butch just nods, his voice lacking humor. “I’ve got eyes. Just you and me…sir.” James is accessing him then, his eyes off of his papers and now solely on him. The older man takes a few steps his way, till he’s a foot in front of him.

At his height, James stands eyed to eye with him.

Butch has a hand at his side with the other in his pocket, still thumbing over the Wasteland’s last hope. Blackwell takes a glance at his hidden hand and makes a very bold assumption. “I didn’t take you for a fool …what’s that you’ve got in your pocket?” It dawns on Butch, that he was always carrying a switchblade around back in his youth. He’s starting to see his mistake and it’s with a step back, that Butch finds himself trying to play nice with the man. “Easy there. No trouble here …can I just have a minute of your time, Doc?” James seems to lower his guard a bit, but not nearly enough to convey that he trusts him.

Butch wouldn’t trust him either though, so that’s no hit to his pride at all.

Blackwell’s words are well placed and hard hitting. “If it’s about what you’re doing with my daughter… I was under the impression that she could speak for herself.” Butch stands tall, showing himself to be stronger than he should be. Than he is actually come to think of it. It hits him, that maybe he should start training for combat again. Blackwell’s rejection, almost stings him a little. “Concerning you and I, however? To be frank, unless you want me to help you find your way to my office- believe me I’d be more than happy to right now…”

Butch has to hand it to the man. The veiled threat is as clever as it is barely hidden. Blackwell is attempting to turn away again as he dismisses him entirely. “…then I must insist you make an appointment.” Butch is about to stop the man, till James lets out a sigh. Then…the man’s more father than Wastelander in that moment, Butch realizes.

Blackwell’s warning him, but…he’s not heartless it seems. “Though when I have the time, I’d very much like to have a talk with you as well…Butch.” As much as Butch wishes he could have left it there…there’s more than just him and the doctor. There’s more to life than Angel and the way it feels to dance with her. He’s saying something desperate, but he knows Blackwell can’t shrug him off…even if it’s blackmail he shouldn’t technically know. “-Maybe you’d like to have that talk, over at the shooting range down in the reactor.” James shoulders tense and the man freezes.

That’ll do it alright.

James fixes a stone faced glare at the boy he thinks is now trying to blackmail him. Butch feels a sour taste in his mouth for acting so petty, but fuck it. He’s got a job to do and he’s not backing down, because he “feels bad” about something. Good god…his wife’s rubbed off on him too much for his liking. James’s voice is no longer friendly, but cold. “Alright, Deloria. I should have guessed. You want to have a talk? Then let’s talk.” Butch squares his shoulders and searches the man’s eyes, knowing full well he’s got him trapped.

Trapped like a deathclaw in a ravine…just because he’s stuck, doesn’t make him any less lethal.

Butch’s shoving both his hands in his pockets and turning his back on the doctor. A show of weakness that he’s not afraid to show, though the thought crosses his mind, that’s he’s wide open to getting a scalpel in the shoulder. He’s longing for the moment when he can be honest with the man and now that he thinks about it? That gun range is the most private place in 101. No cameras and no one to walk in on him, talking about The Enclave and Time-Bombs.

No one but the only doctor in the vault to hear him talking “crazy”.

He doesn’t hear James behind him, so he says it a little rudely, just to get the other man going. “Come on. I know just where I want to have that talk too. You coming, Old Man?” That does it. James is trailing after him and he’s walking for the reactor like a man with a mission. Butch doesn’t even know where to start…but he knows what’s going to happen by the time he’s finished. James is going to help him make the chip’s field more stable and bigger.

He’s going to put them at least 30 years into the future, much quicker. The Doc’s brilliant and Butch might not be that smart, but he knows a lot of the math James’ll need. He watched his wife spend night after night on it and he saw it so much, it was burned into his brain. Blackmail? Fuck that, there’s too much going on in the world for Butch to ever play around with an act so dumb and tiny.

James doesn’t have a clue about that though and Butch sure hopes, that he doesn’t get pushed down the reactor stairs, before he can give him one. All the negative aside however…at least there’s one thing that’s good without a second guess. He can tell someone what he’s seen… he can finally stop acting, like he’s got nothing to worry about. James is a good man and once he hears him out, well Butch knows his daughter. His daughter’s just like him…good to a fault.

He can talk about somethings. Though as the relief tries to creep up on his tired bones, it’s stilted. What can he tell him? What could happen if he said too much? Butch wants to bite out a curse.

This talk they were going to have?

Someone was probably going to be hurting by the end of it.

…good thing Blackwell was a doctor.

* * *

 

Pain and perversion, gross to think about so she just doesn’t think about anything…darkness around her which seems to take hold of her insides.

“Stop movin’ around so much, Girlie!”

Who cares?

No one.

Her brother always knows how to shove things under the rug anyway.

His skin is repulsive. So is the look he gets when he’s done. It feels wrong, but also like nothing anymore. It happens so often, the bruises just appear over and over again. She doesn’t know why she bothers trying to cover them.

“Damnit, Suz!”

Let it be over soon. He backhands her this time, zipping up his pants. She just stares at the Abraxo Cleaner boxes on the bottom shelf. She feels her eyes roll in her skull, looking at him, dead inside. He’s panting, rubbing his knuckles, spitting near her boots.

He rubs the back of his mouth with his hand. “What you get when you bite! Don’t blame me for your mistakes. Quit looking at me like that! You know you like it.” She just lies there. He’ll leave her alone when he’s done. She’s good at lying there. He doesn’t care either way, if she lies there or tries to struggle.

He gets his either way.

She thinks his smile’s ugly, his face is ugly… he’s her brother though, so what does that make her? He’s opening the door and light’s pouring in. He looks from her, her vault suit unzipped, her clothes a mess…and her privates exposed to the open air. Why cover them when there’s no point right now? He always just shuts her in the dark anyway…he always leaves first.

He checks outside and like he thinks he’s charming, he winks at her and her soul dies a little more. “See ya, next Thursday, Little Sister. …you fuckin’ leave too soon though and I’ll have to hit you again.” He’s poking his head out and she’s taking a breath in. She sits up in the pile of old vault suits he knocked her down into. She doesn’t have the energy to talk back, so she just watches him slip out of the closet first. Then…she just sits there…pulling her shirt back down.

She tries to fix her underwear, but it still feels dirty. She’s used to feeling that way…the only bright side, is that everyone just thinks Butch is rough in bed. She doesn’t know what he’s like in bed…but it’s got to be better than…than…

-That Bitchy-Blonde’s birthday was today. She’s pretty sure. Maybe she should have gone…no. No it’s good she didn’t. Fuck, Blackwell- she’s a square.

So why does the thought of being at her party make her want to cry? Oh…she’s crying. When did that start? It’s quiet in the storage closet. She doesn’t know what time she should leave…she doesn’t want to though.

Oh God…where’s Butch?

…she really just wants to see him…

…no…

She can’t have who she really wants.

She’s used goods anyway…

**((TBC))**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! I am so sorry it took so long to update, but I am still updating I promise! I'm getting a little bit busier irl though. This story however? It's my Baby and I will be working on it frequently. Expect an update every month at the latest.
> 
> I also have another little "Smut Fic" that should be going up in a month maybe. 
> 
> I read ever review you guys give me by the way.  
> and reading some of them, truly helped put quite a few paragraphs into this work.  
> THANK YOU ALL SO MUCH FOR YOUR LOVE AND SUPPORT!!
> 
> I look forward to continuing this!  
> Tunnel Snakes, Rule!  
> -Just_Another


	7. Papa Oom Mow Mow (Is He Serious?)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own Fallout 3 or its Character's...this story is my baby however. <3
> 
> I am not dead! I am still posting and writing, though it will be slow. I'd been working for 3 months, which took up most of my time. It was seasonal, so its over and I can focus on my writing more. (While I job search of course).
> 
> I hardly really talk about my personal life, but I feel as though I should more.  
> I hope you all enjoy the latest installment of this.  
> I truly put my soul into it.
> 
> Song Inspiration: The Rivingtons - Papa Oom Mow Mow

 There was no way…that had just happened.

She’s standing in shock, scowling.

Her arms are crossed and there’s a Birthday card clutched in one of her hands.

The diner is much emptier than before, but there’s still a good amount of guests blocking the atrium entrance behind her.

Her mouth is a stiff line and her thoughts are a mess.

From off to the left, she hears Amata’s voice calling her and jarring her out of her fog of anxiety. “Angel!! Over here! Quick!” Her neck jerks around, first searching to her right, where the girl had been sitting before. She’s met with the sight of The Overseer, sitting across from one Officer Gomez, having a heated conversation. Her stomach sinks and her eyes search the room. All the booths around the pair of authority figures are empty and only, when she finds a few full ones past the emptied tables, does she find Amata.

Her friend was quick to flee, once her father found another focus.  _Her_  focus was all over the place at the moment however. Amata sits in the corner booth, the only one at the rather large table. Angie’s knees are almost knocking and it takes her a moment, for her feet to actually catch up to her head. She passes the jukebox and the song that plays next, startles her.

_Papapapa oom mow mow mow, papa oom mow mow, papapa-_

It’s loud alright, but she’s so jittery from the events that just transpired, that just about anything would make her jump. Of course, Amata’s got a look of interrogation on her face. Angie’s insides are roiling. What just happened? There’s this sarcastic little voice in her head, which responds with.  _‘Deloria threw himself at you and you looked half ready to catch whatever the Grease-Head was throwing you… nothing abnormal. You’re certainly acting normal!’_

Her dress brushes past someone’s table to her left and a hand reaches out to tug on the fabric, brushing her leg as it does. Angie skitters away and sees a sight for sore eyes, against the wall in the booth beside her. She puts a hand to her chest, her nerves rattled as she swears at the boy. “Damn it, Freddie! Don’t do that!” Gomez starts laughing goofily, his smile a lot brighter than it normally is. He’s got his boyish face heavily in his palm and Angie smells the booze on him strong.

The boy’s been her friend almost as long as Amata has, though they don’t generally talk much in public. Freddie never really liked to leave his dorm. So, sometimes Angie and Amata would go over to his house to play as children. Angel was a little disappointed in herself for not seeing him earlier or saying hello. She’d been so caught up in Tunnel Snake’s…what was wrong with her?

What was wrong with him? Crashing her party? Being so off his rocker? Dancing so nicely? Damn that, Deloria!

Freddie’s voice is slurred, friendly and a little dopey, in a way Angie can’t help but enjoy. “Great party, Angel-Dust!” Angie barks out a laugh at him. “Yeah! Sure. Great!” Amata’s voice is impatient suddenly, urgent over her shoulder. “Evangeline! Get. OVER HERE!!” Angie’s nerves tick over to the frustrated side of her brain. She’s glancing at Amata and glaring, then back to Freddie, who’s clearly in need of company.

The music’s so loud, that it’s hard to make out what she’s saying, Angel’s sure. Amata’s known her forever though. Sometimes she catches her staring at her mouth a lot more than most people do however. So often, that Angie’s sure her best friend reads her lips, loud and clear. “Shut. UP! I’m coming!” Amata huffs at her over dramatically, but Angie’s now turned her attention to the drunk tugging at her clothes.

She’s hauling Freddie up by the arm of his vault suit and dragging the giggling boy with her. Amata’s eyebrows raise up in surprise and maybe impatience. Angie’s got the card in one hand and her other’s around Freddie’s waist. However hard she’s trying to hold him up though, her legs are just as wobbly. Amata’s about to get up and help her, but she’s already at the rounded corner table and collapsing before she can.

Freddie plops down beside her and rather loudly, exclaims. “Wooo… Butch was sure curled around you today, huh Girl? Weirdest damn thing…I was seeing things right, Doctor Blackwell?” Amata’s chiming in as fast as she can, leaning closer to her ear, rubbing it in. “Ok yeah. He was acting  _off_  all right. That was waaaay off. I should have believed you… what the hell was  **that**?!” Angie refuses to acknowledge the statements of either of them and instead turns to Freddie, asking vehemently. “What are you doing here? Why didn’t you tell me you were coming today?” Freddie’s smiling funnily and it’s charming. She’s really touched by the words coming out of the VDS suffers mouth. “Well… it wouldn’t have surprised you now if I had… would it have?”

He rarely left his house and if he did, it was either to risk the diner with her and Amata, or to head off to work. Angie scoffs warmly, unsure of how to feel, about him pushing himself out of his comfort zone, just for her. She’s decidedly welcomed to having him and Amata flanking her. Especially, after being abandoned to the self-proclaimed King of the Tunnels earlier. She’s elbowing Freddy in the arm then and scolding him. “What’s surprising, is how many drinks you’ve had, when you shouldn’t have... You didn’t take your Chems before having them did you?” She watched him roll his dark eyes at her and the Hispanic boy slings his arm around her, shrugging her off with humor. “I didn’t know it was spiked… did you? …the quantum they’re passing out? It’s got vodka in it…”

He’s giving her a goofy smile, that doesn’t really reach his eyes then. “They were…Quantum Spikes, Angel…how could I have seen them coming?” He knows it bothers her when he dodges her medical questions with jokes, but it’s his way of telling her to stop reminding him. To stop reminding him that everyone thinks he’s a flight risk. To stop being his doctor and to just be his friend. She’s got a hard time doing that though, so she presses him again. “Freddie. Chems. Did you take them?”

Amata’s fingers are on her arm, warning her, but she’s too late. Freddie’s face goes dark and he’s sighing exaggeratedly. He pulls his arm from around her shoulders and growls it at her, sullen and serious. “Stop.” Angie’s heart clenches and her thoughts fall back, to the effects of alcohol and Federico’s medication. Then, she realizes that, there’s no way to get to him then.

So instead, she smiles and guiltily, she puts her friendship first, over her duty of acting, as the future vault medical professional. “…Sorry…” she sighs and resting her chin on the tipsy Spaniard’s shoulder, she turns on the charm. Joking with him, like only they do with one another. “…don’t go “nuclear” on me… you know I’m just “fission” for an answer, Freddie…” Freddie’s lips form a grim line and almost mechanically, his head turns to her. His face is as cold and serious as the grave.

…but she’s known him since preschool, so she just keeps on smiling. That’s when he hits her with it. “…this… means… war.” Amata’s breaking in funnily, drawing their eyes. “Oo…shots fired.” Angie’s snickering and worming her way back under Freddie’s arm again, nudging her friend in the ribs while ribbing him. “Yeah, I can smell them on him too. Fred drank all the reserves I bet. That’s  _really_  why you came, huh? Free drinks.” Freddie sucks in a breath hanging his head and when he brings it back up, he’s grinning again.

He gets her in a headlock and ruffles her blonde hair with his knuckles, making her laugh. He grabs Amata’s shoulder behind her back and jostles it, the life of the party suddenly. He’s so much different when they’re together. She thinks it’s good that he got out today. Whether he was drinking without them or not.

He yells exuberantly, cutting loose and calling for Andy. “Andy, 3 Quantum Spikes -and make them doubles-“Amata promptly kicking his shin under the table. Freddie yelps in pain and when he glares at Angie, Ange’ throws Amata under the bus. She’s nodding her head at her and telling on the young Almodovar. Freddie’s going to ask her, exactly  **why**  she was so violent with him, but doesn’t get the chance. Amata gestures her hand towards her father behind them and her reluctance to sneak drinks, is obvious.

The old man is sitting just a few tables away. Freddie says it tactlessly, the booze still affecting him pretty hard. “Oh right. No wonder everybody cleared out.” It wasn’t a secret that The Overseer had been yelling at Herman Gomez for longer than necessary. Mr. Gomez had walked in shortly after Amata and her father had arrived. Freddie’s father had patience though…it’s what made him such a good cop.

It’s probably the reason all the tables around them were emptied; every table deserted by time The Overseer had made the man sit down in Amata’s newly vacated seat.

Angel does a double take between Freddy and Amata, sensing offense between them. Angie might have defended Amata’s father, if the man was worth defending. Amata’s tone sour, but not argumentative. “It’s not polite to say what everyone’s already thinking, Freddy. …it’s not my fault he can never relax. He does his best.” The Overseer was a class A prick and Evangeline, would never be able to reconcile that fact. The way the man treated Amata was criminal enough, but the way he treated those of the “lower levels” and the vault as whole, was practically tyrannical.

There was more to the “levels” of Vault 101, than simply being farther underground than the floor before it. Once again, the thought of her future in that hierarchy as Vault Physician, tried to nip at the back of her brain. Her eyes go to the card in her hand, which has crumpled a little due to all the motion. She’s quite thankful to be sitting. She’s almost tempted to take her heels off and brave the sticky diner tile.

Just as her eyes seem to trace the cursive writing of the Snake who’d almost… “bit” her just now, Amata’s asking what she’s probably been dying to, since she saw them in the act. “Speaking of saying things that people are already thinking, what in the world… made you let  _Butch Deloria_ \- The ugliest, meanest, most vain and annoying-“ Freddie’s grousing beside her, with a wry smile. “We get it, Princess 101. Tunnel Snake’s suck…you hate them. Deloria’s not so bad you know…” Angie really had to admit, Freddie sure was a lot bolder after a few drinks. He was normally quiet and always had a generally haunted look in his eyes.

Not that she was opposed to seeing him more alive.

What she was opposed to, was the argument about to start on her birthday. Amata’s huffing and pointing her finger at the boy with serious intent. “Don’t you interrupt me, Federico Emilio Gomez!” Angie winces. When the full names come out, the atmosphere always changes. Amata’s face looks a little bitter and it’s not directed at _her_  anymore- it was a shock to even hear it there in the first place coming her way. “We know how much you want to join them and I’ll say it, just like Angie’s said it more than once…”

Oh no…Amata’s putting words into her mouth again. Angie goes to say her part, but Amata’s suddenly irate enough, that she gets talked over. “You’re better with us beside you! We’re your real friends anyway!” As if tacking it on as an afterthought, Amata starts to get…genuinely upset. “-and you’re **better**  than them too! Why would you even think about defending any of them? Let alone  _joining_  them?”

Amata’s shaking her head at him, going off topic and getting petulant. “I don’t understand why you’d want to fit in with them so badly…and I’m not sure I’d want to.”

Angie feels Freddie’s shoulder tense up and sarcasm is the boy’s gift. “Oh I better ask your permission then first, right Overseer? …I’m not sure you  **could**  understand. And I don’t really care  **what**  you want. You get whatever you want anyway…it’s not fair to everyone else, who works to get their share.”

Angie bristles at that. Freddie’s slurring just enough, to tell her that he honestly doesn’t know  **what**  is coming out of his mouth right then. It still doesn’t excuse what he says to Amata in front of her. “Your dad’s the freaking Overseer. My dad’s his…damn foot rest. You don’t get that. You don’t see that. You just sit on your high horse and pretend everything’s alright.”

Angie finds the voice to chime in, her other best friend’s name a warning in her mouth. “Freddie… don’t repeat Deloria’s words… that’s not you…” Freddie hiccups a bit and has a moment of pause. His brow furrows and Angie hopes, that he has the common sense to hold his tongue, but no. Freddie’s always had a habit for being quiet and holding his thoughts inside himself. Not with a buzz though, oh no, he’s not quiet in the least.

If it weren’t for the loud music, everyone would be staring.

…well…they’d be staring a lot more.

He’s smiling like he’s sick of himself. …or maybe he’s just sick of ignoring the way, which Amata’s father is yelling at his from across the room. His voice full of brutal facts, as he nods his head behind him towards the Overseer’s table. “See that over there, ‘Mata?” Amata’s eyes flicker toward her father and Angie’s already aware of what’s being said between the 2 men. Amata’s voice wavers, though she’s still got something bitter in her tone. “…Freddy, I’m sorry I didn’t mean to... –but we’re not talking about my father, I was just saying that-“

Angie’s caught in the middle suddenly and she feels less protected. She’s more trapped by her friends, as the conversation begins to escalate. Freddy’s voice gets a bit condescending and pitchy, as he cuts Amata off harshly. “-I don’t think my dad’s getting a ration raise right now, ‘Mata? -and you know why he’s not?” Amata blinks rapidly, a sound of offense leaving her in a huff. She’s swallowing her words, but not before she gets another sentence out. “I know that this has nothing to do with Deloria and his gang! I know **you’re**  the one who’s being unfair right now!”

Angie’s not sure what went wrong, but she’s wishing that Butch… her heart flutters and she hates herself. She instead turns her attention to Amata and plays mediator, trying to ease Amata’s hurt. “He didn’t mean that Amata, he’s been drinking. We know it’s not your fault what he does…” Fred’s leaning heavily on her shoulder then, fixing his eyes on The Future Overseer’s face. He tells the truth of what they all already know, a Spanish lilt escaping him, along with a poorly concealed belch; both brought on by the alcohol. “I’ll tell you why my father’s being stepped on. –why our rations are getting cut right now. I’ll tell you why, Vault Princesa. It’s because all your father sees is another mouth to feed and not enough food to support us all. So he puts us down like dogs.” Angie’s at a loss, but she sees it, when Amata’s anger crests.

Amata’s voice twists and sure enough, she’s speaking highhandedly. “That is not true. If anything our numbers are dwindling! My father does  **not**  think that way, even if he’s not always…gentle in how he handles things. He does what he does for the good of the entire vault! He’s fair to everyone!” Angie’s brow furrows. That’s one thing that she can’t pretend to agree with Amata on. She knows when not to speak her mind however. So instead, she sits quietly and places her birthday card on the table, so as to have a hand on each of her friends.

The seat cushion is sticking to her calves. Her heart’s racing and she’s wondering how the hell this conversation even turned so ugly. Freddy’s got his arm across the table, poking a finger in Amata’s direction with a laughing distain to his voice. “And you know why your father… gets to treat mine like a dog?” Angie’s hand falls onto his accusing finger. She’s saying it softer, because the boy really is wounded. “Freddie… calm down…”

He’s picking at the things about vault living, that no one ever speaks about. No one ever speaks about it, because technically, it’s treason. Fred’s eyes look from her hand now pushing his to the table and then back to Amata, who’s scowling. Once Freddie nails her with the words, her whole face falls however. She feels Freddie’s hand shaking and she sees his eyes misting up, because he’s not a fighter.

He’s just tired of pretending that his problems don’t exist. Because it’s a true statement that speaks about the vault. About right and wrong. Its Amata’s own careless words being thrown back at her, which have her friend feeling guilty. “It’s because… _he’s better than him_.” Her bottom lip is quivering and for once, Amata’s on the verge of tears. “…Freddie…I’m sorry…I didn’t mean it…”

Fred’s sighing brokenly. He slips his arm off Angel’s shoulders and his voice cracks. “You’re so spoiled…” Angel scolds him then, unable not to. “Amata gets the worst of it living with him, Freddie!” Freddie’s eyes are fogged up and it makes Angie’s heart twist. Amata’s voice is gentle and a lot less confrontational. “Maybe I am… but you know I just meant… I don’t like the way they treat you…the Tunnel Snakes are just a bunch of bullies…”

Out of the corner of their eyes, they spot Officer Gomez being dismissed from the table. Freddie’s voice is full of melancholy again.  “…at least The Tunnel Snakes, don’t pretend like everything down here’s perfect, like you do.” Amata’s at a loss for words, till Angie’s voice breaks the tension. “Freddy, Amata and I care about you… all she was saying is that she thinks  _you_  deserve to be treated better.” Angie’s feeling the absence of Freddy’s warmth and his hand seems to find its way out from the one she’s got in hers. While on her other side, she feels Amata’s fingers lacing with the one’s she got gripping her arm.

The boy takes a breath, giving them a deep sigh of surrender, his eyes hazy. “…yeah…yeah, I know…” His gaze turns on her and she’s known the boy her whole life. That look he’s giving her is defeat. Amata’s voice is softer… more understanding than before. “…I’m sorry…I really am…” Freddie’s eyes flicker to the brunette beside her and with a slow nod, his tears slip out. “…s’ok…mhm… it’s…it’s not your fault…about my dad… how things are…”

Sometimes, things aren’t always ideal in 101. Sometimes you take things out on the people you love. Freddie knew that feeling all too well. His eyes leave Amata’s and go in the direction of his dad’s back, leaving the diner behind without so much as a “See you at home, son.” Freddie can’t blame him for it though.

He sniffles, sighing, apologizing himself. “…guess I just needed someone to blame for it… ‘m sorry, ‘Mata…” Then, the music on the jukebox changes to something slower again. The three of them just sit in silence for a bit, that’s almost uncomfortable. They’ve always stuck together. The Freak, The Nosebleed, and The Daddy’s Girl.

So fights between them start off hot, but tend to end pretty quickly too. They’re all they’ve got. Suddenly, Amata gives a very exaggerated stretch and with a funny interjection, she eases the tension. “Ooooh boy…” saying something so blunt and with such a big smile, Freddie snorts out laughing. “…so my dad’s a real dick, huh guys?” Angie’s laughing right along with Freddie, while Amata’s playing footsie with her under the table.

Her male friend on her left and Amata on her right, she feels the air clear. Amata’s moving her hand off her arm and back onto her own lap, joking with her. “Gosh, Angie you’re laughing really hard there… what did Deloria have to write for you, huh? Maybe that’s even funnier?” Angie’s laughter ceases, as Amata snatches the card off the table without warning. Before she can stop her, Amata’s opening it, as Angel reaches for it, no longer laughing. “Amata, don’t just-“

Her friend’s face goes serious, as she’s reading it aloud. Hearing Butch’s simple words out loud, is enough to make her face explode. “… _Sorry for being an asshole…”_  Angie’s reaching over the table then and Amata’s holding her gift just out of reach. She’s thoroughly unamused by Amata’s teasing and it shows in her voice, more than she likes. “Amata, give it back!” Her friend looks at her like she’s grown two heads, as she’s literally in Amata’s lap trying to grab it back.

Amata’s voice goes up an octave in disbelief, her smile mirroring her tone. “- _hope your birthday isn’t shitty._ Hah-What? Is he serious?” Angie’s practically ready to straddle her just to take it back. She’s hearing Freddy at her back, egging Amata on. “See? I’m not the only one looking to get into a nice piece of leather…” Amata’s eyes go wide, as she drops her guard enough for Angie to snatch the paper back. She’s sitting back in her seat, huffing and flushed, turning her angry eyebrows on the boy to her left. “-Freddie! Gomez! I do not!”

Freddie’s waggling his eyebrows at her and Amata’s voice is full of laughter. “Oh, Angel don’t be that way…” Angie’s about to open her mouth, when Amata’s voice lowers into a bad impression. _“…Let’s try to play nice more? **Huh?**  Ok?”_ Angel laughs snidely, clutching the card to her chest, suddenly the butt of the joke. “Yes. Please. Laugh it up guys. …not like it’s my birthday or anything. Not like I asked him to… for anything…” Amata’s smile is bright, but there’s a look in her eyes, that Angie doesn’t want to see. Her friend wraps her arm around her shoulders and Freddie’s watching them with a small grin.

His eyes dark and something hidden there, she knows its best not to remind him of.

Amata’s words try to play it off, but Angie knows, the bitter’s back again. “Hey… I’m just kidding. It’s just…hard to believe. I mean he must be playing! Deloria… and you…” The very words make Angie’s skin crawl and she’s mortified, that it’s not just because of disgust. She’s denying it, almost hysterically laughing. “Oh god…ha ha, no. I told you. He’s got a head injury…or he’s…I don’t know- but no! I don’t know!” Before either of them says another word, another voice announcing itself at their booth, has them all jumping. “I’m very sorry, but I have certain responsibilities to attend to and have to cut my visit short. Amata Dear, I expect you home very soon. …and Gomez. I just spoke with your father earlier. I didn’t realized you’d come with him.”

The Overseer could be as quiet as the grave, when he wanted to be. None of them even heard him approach. Angel can already see Freddie’s shoulders tightening. Amata’s stepping in before her father can further elaborate. “Dad, I’m with my friends… please? I’ll be home early. I promise.” The Overseer’s focus immediately drifted to his daughter and the way her friend was holding her.

Angie sees the snooty way he looks down his nose at her. She pretends she doesn’t, but it’s hard to fake a smile with an asshole staring right at you. His voice feels like steel wool on the table’s good spirits. “…well, alright. Just don’t have too much cake. You know you need to watch your figure.” Angie’s teeth grit and the way she says it, is less than polite. “Oh she will! We tell her all the time! Like clockwork! On the hour. Every minute! It’s just like she’s right at home with us!” Amata’s eyes go wide and the Overseer’s upper lip curls into what’s supposed to be a smile. “Ah, Mrs. Blackwell. See that you do. Can’t be too careful about what goes into your mouth… or what comes out of it for that matter… I’m sure you already know that very well…being medically trained to the  _best_  of your father’s ability…”

The way the man’s eyes gloss over her figure would have been insulting enough. The words he ticks on condescension with a false sense of guidance at the end, only leaving her that much more livid. “…though perhaps not. Maybe Amata could show you a thing or two, about maintaining one’s ideal shape. I’m sure it’d be good for the both of you.” Angel laughs, because the advice is laughable. If it were up to the Overseer, they’d all be skin and bones, every woman in 101. Almost at the end of her rope with the day’s events, Angie’s ready to snap. “Listen y-“

Amata steps on her foot and the shock of pain has her grunting roughly. Freddie’s gone silent, while Amata saves them all. “That’s excellent advice, dad! We’ll keep it in mind. See you at home. I won’t have too much cake, but I’ll bring you back a slice.” Amata’s father smiles warmly at his daughter, his tone only slightly less condescending when addressing her. “My, Amata that’s so sweet of you. I’ll be looking forward to it.” He nods to her and then turns his shark-like eyes to Angie. His well wishes, almost border lining on veiled insults “What a nice… gathering. I’ll be sure to attend next year. Happy Birthday, child.”

Apparently though she was now an adult, the man would never give her the satisfaction of being one.

They all offer him thin smiles…except for Freddie, who simple remains silent. His gaze has been dug into the table since the elder arrived. The Overseer bids them goodbye and they know, it’s not just them breathing a sigh of relief, as his back leaves their sight. The entire diner seemed to fall into a hush when he’d come in. They’re all silent, till Freddie finally looks up at Angel.

The trio exchange looks, before Freddie’s grinning and bellowing to Andy again. “Andy! 3 Quantum Spikes-“Surprisingly, it’s Amata who finishes their order. “-And make them doubles!” Luckily, the music was mid change and the diner was at a dull roar, so Andy was able to hear them this go around. “Right away sirs and madams! They’ll be out in a jiff!” It hits Angel then, as she leans over, as if conspiring with her best female friend. “Did anyone even  **bring**  a cake?” Freddie cuts in with a laugh. “Hell, if I know…”

Angie’s smiling and for the first time…she can truly relax at her own party. She tucks the card away into her breast, her lack of pockets pretty irritating. She was always used to having them or a tool belt of some sort. The price of looking pretty for…herself. She almost thinks she’s off the hook about Deloria…till Amata’s on her back again. “…So. Deloria really draw that for you? …I’m already losing  **one**  of you to the Snake Pit… don’t tell me you’re next? After everything they’ve done to you?”

Angie rolls her eyes at her friend and prepares herself for a very… long, birthday conversation.

She’s almost afraid, that he’ll come back… because then that means she was actually waiting for him to.

It’ll mean that the card against her chest, touched her heart in very… literal and metaphorical ways.

Butch better have a good reason for simply leaving her here to answer her friend’s multitude of invasive questions.

 

The eyes on the back of his head?

 Well he sure as hell felt them there.

James hadn’t pushed him down the stairs as they’d descend them, but he could tell that the desire was in the air.

Butch really never thought too much about the door that never opened in the reactor at 17.

He’d only ever passed it by, as he made his way to the place where he’d smoke his Big’s. (A/N-1)

He wasn’t sure what to expect, but as they approached the door, he knew how to start. James speaks up from behind him with significant venom in his tone. “I always knew you were troubled, but I never thought you’d ever stoop so low.” Butch’s ribs try to get tight over his heart. He knows the only way to get him to follow, is to make the doctor believe he’s ready to tell the Overseer about the range. To make him believe that Butch would endanger his life and his daughter’s, just to get more monthly rations.

Even back then… even  **he**  wouldn’t have been that coldblooded.

He’s staring at the lock for the first time, his voice leaving him hollow, a very well placed poker face. “Hey, we all do what we gotta do down here right, Doc?”

Butch remembers the words of his wife, spoken with laughter and a gentle smile.  _‘…I can’t believe you never tried to get in…sometimes you’d chase me down there and I’d hear you outside the door…’_

Behind him the Doc’s trying to talk him down, his voice calm and collected. “Far be it for you to care what I think, but I know you’re better than this. You don’t have to do this and I think you already grasp that, Butch. What you are doing now is a choice. Don’t mistake it.”

Butch’s hand falls back to his pocket, as he handles the chip and thinks to himself.  _‘I know, Doc… and I’m choosing the world over my tender virtues. Hope you’ll see it my way in a bit. I bet you will…’_

Instead, what Butch says holds confidence and a lack of care. “Nothing personal, Old Man.”  He fishes around for his switchblade in his suit jacket’s inner lining, his wife’s words soft and clear.  _‘…Haha, but you could never catch me, could you, Pretty Boy? You really never did figure out where I went…’_  He’s taking it out and flipping it open. Finding the hidden panel beside the doorframe, which holds the main lock system, he goes for it. He uses the tip of the blade to undo the screws above the intercom.

Finding a screen with a passcode ready to be typed into it. Right there hidden beneath it. Damn thing was hard to find, if you didn’t have the voice recognition to get it open. Impossible for him back then. …but he knew a lot of things he shouldn’t have right then.

It was a manual override Butch speculated. The older man behind him is both irritated, if not morbidly impressed. “Well, you’ve certainly done your homework. I don’t know whether to be impressed at your preemptive planning or disappointed.” Butch grunts out an amused sound.

He can’t help himself for lightening the mood. “Just another Snake in the Tunnel, Doc. Lying in wait. Waiting to strike. All that noise…but I don’t think that’s what you want to hear right now.” The attempt at humor, does nothing to calm the man’s temper and everything to stoke it higher. “Whatever you’re after, I’m not an easy man to bargain with, Mr. Deloria. I’m not easily threatened either, so I hope you’ve got a plan beyond intimidation tactics.” Butch’s mind is on the passcode at his fingertips.

He’s biting back a warm feeling, thinking the words with affection, as he types them in.  _‘happy birthday’_  Sure enough, the locks start to shift. Before Butch can help himself, he’s looking at the tense man in the lab coat behind him and cracking a grin. “Well, good thing we’re not bargaining. This is more of an “I talk and you listen” kind of deal.” The door unlocks and as Butch reaches for the handle, the door comes open with ease. There before him, is his wife’s childhood hideaway.

He’s always wondered about it. He’s caught in a wave of guilt and nostalgia. The memory of his wife and their lives in the vault. He chased her down the halls, but he’d never have hurt her beyond what he did. Maybe tripped her or get her locked against a wall or two, but he’d never-

-He’s startled by the sound of the door slamming behind them. Butch turns on his heel, just in time to catch sight of James’ knuckles slamming into his jaw. Butch has good reflexes, but James packs one hell of a punch. He recovers quickly enough, just as the doctor gets him pinned against the steel crates, which are stacked up against the left wall. Butch has always remembered the man, as a level headed person.

Calm and kind. Well put together. What Butch had forgotten, was that he’d never seen James outside of the vault. The Wasteland gave you very little room to be “polite”. The doctor had more bite in him than Butch expected, though he did expect it.

Butch feels his feet being lifted off the steel floor and Doctor Blackwell’s got his arm pressed tight against his throat. The pressure and the threat of being suffocated, might have terrified him when he was younger. Butch’s got a feeling, that that’s exactly Blackwell’s gambit. To scare him. The Doctor’s voice is calm, with almost literal surgical precision in its cutting edge. “No. This more of an “ **I**  talk” and you don’t, kind of deal.”

Butch’s eyes are narrowed, his thoughts working overtime on how to start talking. His knife’s at James’s throat, but the doctor has no fear in him. Butch can’t help the smirk. He’s a tough bastard just like him. James puts more pressure on his windpipe and it’s enough to make him cough.

Blackwell’s voice booms loudly, with severe disapproval. “Now, I don’t think you understand the consequences of your actions, beyond this childish game, son.” Oh Butch knew them alright and it was all he could do to keep from panicking. If Blackwell didn’t hear him out, he was up Shit River without a paddle. He tries to get a word out, but the man cuts him off.  “-Were the Overseer to find a reason, to strip me of my duty, do you know whose lives you’d be putting at risk?”

Butch doesn’t want to press his switchblade to his father-in-law’s neck, but he never wanted to threaten him either. It was sheer combative reflex, which had him going for the jugular. Butch tries to get him to let go, his voice hard like gravel. “-Doc, I can’t breathe.” The Doctor’s grip doesn’t ease up. It simply holds the same weight consistently, as James continues to talk reason into him. “-Your mother for one, Mr. Deloria. Who will treat her if I’m arrested? Did you  _plan_  ahead for that as well?””

Butch’s heart swells…with pride. Damn, that was a low blow, but a very smart one. He can’t hold that smile in either, laughing at the Doctor’s balls. “Damn, that’s real harsh…bringing my Ma’ into this…” That gets him more weight against his windpipe and a deadly scolding. “-I am not just talking about your mother, Butch.” Butch hears the moral high ground in Blackwell’s speech and he wishes this had gone better.

Butch has a hand pushing against James’ arm, to relieve the pressure on his neck. While the other has a knife to the doctor’s throat, that James clearly doesn’t believe he’ll use on him. He’s right, but it doesn’t change the fact that he could. The man’s brave… no wonder his wife had such little fear. Butch struggles to get the words out, not having to put on an act to sound apologetic. “-ok, ok! Relax! I’m sorry ok?-“

However, James is still very much on edge, cutting him off once again. “-here’s a question I'm sure you already know the answer to. If I’m the only active doctor in the vault, who keeps everyone alive? Who steps in if I’m unable to treat them from a cell?” Butch sighs and decides to abandon his knife, seeing as it’s not going to get him anywhere. The switchblade clatters to the floor with a loud finality. Butch wheezes out another apology, trying the tactic of surrender instead. “-I said I was sorry, didn’t I? I’ll forget what I saw! I’m no snitch! So-so ease up will ya, Doc?” James looks swiftly to the fallen weapon and back at the boy he’s incapacitated.

James cold expression darkens, as he lets him go. The doctor takes a few steps back, while Butch rubs his throat and works his jaw. He’s grinning and can’t help joking with him, a nervous tick most likely. “Damn! That’s a real steady right hook you’ve got there. Might need to make an appointment after all.” James looks decidedly unaffected. Before Butch can say another word, the doctor is walking to the door, with a very gruff warning. “I’ll hold you to your word, as it’s all I can do. See that you keep it or you’ll find that I pack more than just a punch, Butch.” Butch smiles, talking wryly. “Yeah, I’ll take  _your_  word on that one…that’s for damn sure.”

Butch’s heart stops, because he’s practically half way out the door. Butch bites his tongue and curses. “-Hey! I’m not done talking yet!” James doesn’t even look back at him, as he unlocks the door, ending their conversation. “I’ve heard quiet enough.” Butch’s scrambling for the words, but he was never fucking good with words. It was his wife who could motivate armies and she was always the better diplomat.

Butch stands there, smart enough not to try and pull him back in. James turns to look at him, standing at the threshold, offering him a very different kind of warning. “-And my daughter  **can**  take care of herself, however, if you go near her again or so much as threaten her with a spitball…” Butch’s breath comes out rushed and he’s searching the room for an answer. He’s got his hand in his pocket twirling the chip between his fingers. If James walks out on him now, like this?

He won’t get another chance alone with the man. James is turning, biting off his sentence with menacing clarity. “… **I’ll**  be the one to take care of you, Mr. Deloria. Bet on it.” Butch was never the tactician his wife was. He was more guns first and questions later. His wife called him a Brahmin in a bookstore once… she wasn’t wrong.

Without thinking and without another option, Butch bellows it out like a desperate man. “I know about Project Purity!” Butch has went through the whole “time-stopping-moving-backwards-and-out-of-it” deal. This moment is the closest thing to doing that a 2nd time. Blackwell’s back goes ridged and without looking back, the man speaks to him. “I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Butch gets a chill in the air from his tone and unable to go slowly, he offers up more damning evidence. “I know it’s your life’s work and that you sacrificed it all, for your family to have a place here in the vault. I know you weren’t born here.”

Butch waits there, in the middle of the room, for the man to face him.

When he does, it’s a different man looking at him. The lethal intent there, is no longer a gambit. James’s voice puts ice in Butch’s veins for a moment and its two Wastelander’s squaring off to the death. “You’re treading into a place you don’t want to walk, Deloria… No one would believe you. Whatever story you tell.” Butch squares his shoulders and searches the man’s eyes, aware of his switchblade on the floor. Butch’s grin vanishes, as the weight of his task falls on him.

He’s gruff, but honest, holding his hands up in surrender. “The only person who I need to believe me, is you, James…Dr. Blackwell…sir.” James’ eyebrow quirks up in question, his hand still on the door. “What do you want me to believe, if this isn’t blackmail, Son? Because that’s the only option you’ve given me so far.” Butch nods his head, a sullen smile on his mouth, and age showing through his stare. “Have I got a story for you…” Butch gestures at the door, his voice rough, dead serious. “You’ll wanna shut that door though. We don’t want anyone overhearing or eavesdropping. You know how to keep a secret, right Doc?” James pauses and looks from Butch, to the door.

He’s assessing his choices. Butch is afraid he’s blown it. That he’ll have to find out how to deal with his own problems. Till reluctantly, James steps forward and shuts the door behind them. It locks.

The relief is short lived, but at least James is willing to listen. The Doctor’s hands are at his sides and his eyes are prying, his words even. “Alright, Deloria. If you’re not looking for a handout…what do you want?” Butch nods with respect, getting right to the point. “I told you before. I talk. You listen. That’s all.” James nods back with brisk acceptance. “Right. Then go ahead. I’m listening.” Butch swallows hard.

He’s got no idea where to begin. He mutters the words under his breath. “…proof…proof first…” his eyes flicker to the floor and then back to the Doctor. He figures he’ll start out with something that shouldn’t be in the vault archives. Personal things about Evangeline and the father she never got to really know. Butch’s shoulders relax and he starts, what’s going to be the longest story of his life. “…Your wife recorded a message a long time ago. Was the last one. Called it “Better Days”. It’s probably still over at Jefferson where she left it…where you left it. You didn’t get a chance to take it… That’s how I’m gonna start…”

Shock breaks James’ collected continence. He slips up and it shows in his voice, for good reason. “How on earth do you-“Butch cuts him off with another fact, which he shouldn’t have any idea about. “-You’ve been planning to leave the vault. You plan to open the door  **again**  and leave her too. Your daughter. So you can continue the Project.” James’s face goes white then, because that particular accusation could be the death of him. He splutters with insult, once again with shock in his tone. “-You…how the hell do you-“

Butch takes a step forward hands raised up, non-confrontational. He interrupts again, with more sentiment than fact. “-Once you leave, the vault’s gonna turn to a fuckin’ warzone. The Overseer’s going to try to kill her…and she’ll go after you. Alone. She won’t be safe like you’d planned. Or hoped I guess.” James’s hands form tight fists and his face is unreadable. Butch gives him a moment to soak it up. The room is filled with the creaking of metal and the squeaking of the targets behind them, blowing in the ventilation’s current.

James’s voice is shaken, his thoughts hidden. “…It’s unsettling, just how much you… _think_  you know…” Butch’s face softens and he’s got his heart wide open then. Maybe James sees the truth of it in his eyes or hears it in his voice, but love? Love is the only thing that can make a man like him, look gentle. His hands raised and his eyes locked with his Father-In-Law’s, Butch drops his act. “…yeah. I think I know enough… Wasteland teaches you pretty quick. I don’t know much really…. I just know what she taught me…”

James is sober, unreadable. “What  _who_  taught you?” Butch smiles and laughs, worried about what’s going through the man’s mind. “You think I’m nuts…yeah, well I did too.” Butch shrugs his shoulders and the air is filled with tension, as he talks. “At first.” James’s words are careful, analytical and Butch’s worst fear is just on the tip of his tongue. “Evangeline said you might have a concussion. I had hope, that she’d been mistaken.” Butch laughs again, shaking his head, left with no other option, than to get him to understand. “Sorry, Doc. I wish I did too. Boy, part of me does. Too bad I’m as sane as anyone …Hear me out and you’ll know that. You heard of The Enclave?”

James’s eyes register the name, replying with an undertone of disbelief, which entered his voice at the first mention of “Better Days”. “…a better, more pressing question, is where the devil did  **you** hear about them?” Butch searches the man’s eyes and takes another step forward, lowering his arms. Butch reaches into his pocket, 2 feet away from James and the door. He waits for James to respond again, because the man clearly has questions.

Butch just gave him more questions, than he can even answer right now, most likely. He’s not sure what he should say. He doesn’t know what’ll change if he says too much. Butch is afraid he said too much, when he told the man that his daughter wouldn’t be safe when he left. James is a practical man, but even the most intelligent man can be overwhelmed.

James takes a breath, frustration in his voice. “-It’s possible you might have read about The Enclave or The Wasteland, by getting access to restricted terminal files. That explains where you could have heard about Jefferson as well…” James shakes his head, more arguing with himself than with Butch. “-Maybe you even overhead me talking with Jonas…about my work…but…” James’s brow furrows and the more the man thinks, the more Butch figures, he’s winning him over. James sighs, unable to form an answer to how Butch knows- “-but no else knows about that recording from my wife…” Butch gives the man a moment, before interjecting. “…I get that this is a lot to take in…but I’m not just showing off by telling you all this.”

James voice is shaky, but clear. “Then why are you?”

Butch thinks it’s as good a time as any, to show the man the reason he’s standing in front of him. His chin raised, his eyes surely holding desperation in them, Butch is frank. “Because I need your help and you’re all I’ve got, Doc.” James nods, the man’s face…well fuck. Butch was as good at reading faces as any hardened survivor, but James was a blank slate. All Butch can do is bridge the gap between them, as James askes him, perplexed. “There’s more, isn’t there?”

Butch shrugs, standing eye to eye with the man again. “Wish there wasn’t, believe me…but you’ve got to hear me out.” The Enclave. Megaton. His son. It all comes back to him, his mouth forming a grim line and his words so sober, it’s enough to make James respond with one iota less taciturn of an expression. “If you don’t listen to me right here today, it’s not just my ass on the line. It’s the whole damn world- past the Wasteland, from the Commonwealth and on, it’s all on me to figure out how to stop what’s coming- and believe me, fuckin’ blackmailing you for rations are the last thing on my mind.”

James takes breath, his face shell shocked, his voice on edge, yet quiet. “You certainly seem to have conviction.” Butch scoffs, feeling too tired to hold his tongue. “Ok first off, regardless of what you’re looking at, I’m a hell of a lot more old and leathery than I look, James.” Butch watches the Doc’s eyes flicker to the hand he’s got in his pocket, the older man’s thoughts surely dissecting his every word. “Well, you’re either suffering from head trauma, or you’re telling the truth… -but there’s no way for me to be sure...” The doctor cuts himself off, putting a hand beneath his chin. “…Ok, Butch. If I’m not looking at a troubled boy with severe delusions of grandeur, what am I seeing right now?” Butch had a feeling…that if the doctor had to, he’d be seeing delusions whether he had them or not.

A man had to do whatever it took, to keep his family safe. Even if it meant ruining someone else’s life. If your kid was threatened, you’d kill whoever even dared a wrong look in their direction. Butch swallows hard, because being stuck in the Psych ward of 101, would be the end of him. It’d be the end of everything.

Butch may not be a good man. He may not have been good with words. But…there was one thing he was. He was all heart when he had to be. So he tells him, exactly who he is. “…You’re seeing a man on borrowed time.”

He pats his own chest with his hand, feeling brave. “You’re looking at the future here… “He motions to himself with a weak laugh. “…well, what’s left of what it turned out to be, anyway.” Blackwell’s voice cuts the air with neutrality. “…Just what exactly are you saying?” Butch squares his shoulders, finally saying it plain, taking the dive off the edge of no return. “I’m saying I’m a 32 year old bag of leather and bones that ended up looking brand new again...” Before James can say a word, Butch is taking the chip out of his pocket, looking the man right in the eyes. “I’m saying… that I’d do anything to keep this place in one piece- not this fuckin’ vault or just The Wastes, but everything in between.”

He’s reaching his hand out, showing James the last hope for humanity and saying something with smile, which almost feels a little cliché. “…I’m saying I’m from the future, Doc. …and all the proof you need is right here. I’d swear my life on it. It’s in the math. I’m not nuts.” The doctor’s eyes flicker from his to the chip, with a notable change of attitude. On the verge of believing him. Either that, or he’s about ready to drag him back up the stairs and admit him. James nods his head, taking the chip from his hands and Butch feels a dead weight in his chest at the loss of it.

It’s everything. His future and everybody else’s’, that the man’s holding. He’s got to get that through his head. The exchange is quick, but the air lingers with static. James holds it up, taking a closer look, muttering at him. “…it’s awfully convenient for you, that I can’t see what’s on it. Isn’t it?” 

Butch’s voice is sharp, a note of desperation breaking through him. “-you can. Right here, right now. To be honest, your Pipboy and mine, are the only places I want it tracked back to.” Butch scoffs derisively. “No way in hell… is that rat-bastard Overseer, getting fuckin’ anything on that. –The man’d seal it up and throw the goddamn key away… ” James is serious and it’s clear that he understands, that Butch is throwing his neck out on the line, telling him this. The question is clear, asked by the only one Butch would trust with this outside his wife. “Then surely there’s a reason you’re trusting me with it. Why?”

James eyes are sharp and his jaw seems to tighten on him. “Why me?” The doctor’s talking at him then, as if he’s a headcase. “…If you believe that you are in fact from…  _the future_ , why tell me?” James’ brow furrows and Butch’s gut clenches at the pity he sees there. “…Assuming this isn’t a foolhardy prank, I’m certainly the only one who could diagnose you…” Butch throws his hands up and cuts him off, his expression grim. “-Now wait a second, before you go throwing around your “diagnose”, Blackwell.” When Butch is sure the man’s not going to stop him, he sidesteps over to slowly pick his Switchblade off the floor.

James’ back goes stiff, but Butch is doing his best to put him at ease, with what little tact he’s got. “-easy! I need it to get the screws open.” He taps his own Pipboy’s screen with his knife, after he’s got it in his grasp. James is at a crossroads with him it seems. Butch tries to put the different outcomes of this confession, out of his head, as James nods for him to continue forward. Butch turns his eyes to his Pipboy, taking them off the doctor and displaying a show of trust.

Its takes trust to earn trust.

Butch gets the panel open, as his boots stop in front of the doctor, who’s very intently assessing him. Butch reasons with him again, slipping his weapon back into his pocket. “Just take a look at the numbers and the frequency that their traveling. You’re a smart man, Blackwell…but that’s not why I’m trusting you.” To be fair, it wasn’t just for the reason Butch gave him, either. “…I’m trusting you, because I know you’re a good one.” Butch is actually trusting him…because James was the father of the woman he loved.

…and like father, like daughter. Family was family. No matter how fucked up or from when or where… Butch considered the man to be family. Butch holds his hand up, asking for the chip back and his words…had shaken James up. Butch’s brows raise, because he’s surprised by the man’s reaction.

But it hits him hard, that he never used be sincere. James hands the chip back to him and Butch has no idea what to really expect; from James or the highly untested Time-Flux Obstructer Chip. But James is giving him the go ahead and Butch’s ears pick up sorrow. “Alright then, Son. …let’s have a look at those numbers then.” Butch hears the hint of disbelief and that lack of belief, would have been the end of him…

…if in that moment, he hadn’t secured the chip inside his Pipboy. If it hadn’t of come to life. If the equations that his wife was surrounded by, as she gave birth to their son, didn’t appear. If they hadn’t have started scrolling wildly on the screen. If they hadn’t of just revealed the truth of the matter, beyond denial, that Butch was in fact…not nuts.

Butch saw the man’s demeanor change again beside him, from neutrality to horror. Well, Butch had been scared too, when the science flicker on his arm, had been tested at Megaton and proved to be solid. He can offer no comfort to the man, only a spark of pride and relief. “…It’s nice to see you’re open minded.” Butch laughs, when James damn near does a double take from the screen and back to him. Butch just grins, the urge to be honest just too hard to resist. “Yeah. That’s about how my face looked too, the first time I saw The Enclave coming right at me…”

Butch’s smile dies, honest as death. “…When they took my town… ‘n everything I ever loved from me.”

James breath leaves him harshly. The neutrality in his voice gives way to disturbed curiosity. “What you’re showing me is theoretically impossible-“Butch cuts him off, respect taking a back seat to bitterness. “-Yeah sure. And no one ever leaves the vault or comes in.” James attention flies from his wrist, to look him in the face. Butch cocks his head to the side in an offhanded shrug. “Impossible shit, is just the stuff people haven’t figured out yet… The Enclave did.”

Butch can’t help it and he doesn’t see the harm in saying it. His voice goes soft and he’s sure his face is covered in the truth. “Your daughter did too…” James is at a loss for words at that. Quiet. It would be unnerving to say, that the man looked like his daughter, just before deciding whether or not to end someone’s life.

But he did.

Butch takes a step back, James’ eyes following his arm for a long pause. For the first time since he woke up to his young wife in the clinic, he shows how tired he is. Butch nods his head over to some crates lined up, just before the targets setup before them. His voice sounds older again, more like himself. “…Come on and sit down. …like I said…” Butch shuffles his feet, hearing James following behind him. “…I’ve got a story to tell you.”

…and James was going to get every other word, which Butch could tell him.

 

 

She’s not sure how long she’s been standing in place.

Her chest’s hollow, his fingerprints pressed abashedly to her shoulders.

Blue, blossoms on her throat, where he pressed too hard.

Blue on her cheek, where he placed his violence, hardly hearing her sobs.

The feeling of him hard and sweating over her, doesn’t produce any thought. She does what she can, just so no one’ll know who’s leaving the marks. She lets him have his fun and then stares vacantly at him, from across the dinner table nightly. She doesn’t think Wally knows…she’s not sure he’d do anything about it even if he did. Their older brother’s the devil.

But the vault’s always had it out for them anyway…

_“The Mack’s are goddamned hellspawn!”_

_“The Mack’s are so hotheaded, that they’ve got the devil in their hair! They all got so angry, that it’s started turning red!”_

_“That Officer Mack’ll do you in if you’re not careful where you walk at night!”_

_“The middle one’s no better! Running around with that gang! Pah! Just as ill-tempered.”_

_“Youngest’s kind of pretty…too bad she’s got fists just like her brothers…what a waste…”_

 

_“If you knew what was good for you, you’d stay away from them!”_

That was what she’d taken up as her creed. Her way of life. Don’t notice her and she won’t notice you. She was spiteful anyway. It ran in her blood.

Susana Marie Mack, was a bitter, vengeful, bitch. She liked that about herself. What she hated, was waking up in the morning to her own weakness. She could deal with the vile act itself, as long as there wasn’t any proof the next day of her lot in life. Boys will be boys, but her oldest brother was the one who taught her that.

He’d done it the first time drunk. She was 13 and he was 16. He’d come into her room with one of his friends from level 32.  _‘Hey little sis… I’m gonna make a woman out of you, while Brad watches… and there’s no one to hear you scream. What do you think about that?’_  Her brother was a sadist…he got off on other people’s pain. She was just the easiest release for him.

Conveniently owned property.

At least she’s stopped crying. Tears are ugly. No man likes an ugly girl. She’s not ugly either. She's better than a lot of people despite her sins and that’s what she tells herself, sticking up her chin, preparing herself to face the outside.

She steps outside of the door, her face surely the picture of apathy. The fluorescent lights blind her a little and she’s finally gotten her clothes straightened. He didn’t rip anything this time. She’d be taking it out of his rations check if he had. He’d still yet to figure out where the hell they’d been going.

She could steal things from him too.  _‘You break it, you buy it, asshole…’_  the thought, is a dull vengeful roar, from the repressed part of her mind which still has the gall to fight back at him. When the closet door shuts behind her, something about the sound, almost has her wanting to break apart again. …but she’s outside of the closet now. The world behind her in the dark little space, where her brother raped her and she let him, is behind her.

Back inside where she refuses to even glance.

She turns on her heel, when low and behold… fuck it all.

“…Oh Susie…for God’s sake… fix your face…” It’s Christine. Fucking the last person she wanted to see. Well no… there was a list however and her friend/rival had a spot on it. She’s not aware of Christine’s hands moving on her, but they **are**  on her…decidedly gentle. It makes her want to vomit.

She’s looking through dead eyes, right through her. Christy’s voice is… matronly. “…You can’t let anyone see you like this…you’ll ruin your reputation…” Susie wants to tell her to jump off the 3rd level atrium floor, but the words get caught in her throat. Instead, a choked noise escapes her and the look of pity Christine’s face takes on, burns. Her friend’s an ice chest.

Warm on the outside, cold on the inside. The boy’s started saying that, but as loath as Susie is to admit it…it’s not entirely true. The way Christy’s hands gingerly smooth over her face and her bruises, has heavy meaning. She’s right, as very irritating as it is to hear her say. “You look shameful…my god…” She feels her friends’ hands on her shoulders, her voice so quiet, but it’s as if she’s yelling them. “…Susana, I’m so sorry…”

She hates looking at her own weakness in the mirror every day. Though it’s that much more debilitating, when Christine’s suddenly got her arms around her and she’s crying, without a thought in her head. Christine’s shoving her away gently after a minute or two, cold care all over her face. “Shh, stop that. …I can’t help you right now…I’ve got a very important errand.” Susie shudders, as her friend’s dainty palm, presses lightly against her less damaged cheek. Christine could come off cold at times, but her advice was never terrible. “You’ll straighten your clothes more… comb your fingers through your hair…and you won’t show your pain...not a lick of it...”

Susie huffs out a breath that’s heavy, nodding. Kendall’s voice goes so gentle, it roils her gut. “…go find, Butch…” Susie stands lifeless, her limbs like dead branches on a tree. She knows Christine well and her touch…her remorse for her is in it. She sees the tears in her friend’s eyes, the regret in her voice clear, and the very slight reluctance to walk away in her motions. “…He’ll care for you…”

In that moment, Susie knew. Christine knew where the bruises came from. She’d known all along. …that was why she said it…why she kept pushing them together, her and Butch. Christine was smart…scary smart.

Susie’s feet carried her like a zombie.

She had to find Butch…that’s what she’d decided on anyway, before Christine had to but her nose in.

…even if it’s not really what she wanted…you don’t always get what you want.

No matter what **she** wanted, a Mack sure as hell didn’t deserve it, if anyone else had a say.

…but right then, all she wanted, was Butch to make it go away.

So she could look in the mirror and pretend the bruises weren’t Stevie’s…

**((TBC))**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N-1. Fun fact, Big Boss was the name on the cigarette packs in Fallout 3. Check it out on the Wiki and you’ll see there was some speculation that hinted, that they named them after one of the Primary characters of Metal Gear Solid :Code Named: Big Boss.
> 
> ^^^wikied that. I wiki a lot of things for Fallout 3 while writing. LOL x3
> 
> It's actually really funny how I plan things btw...lol! Here's the notes I made for myself to try and plot out this chapter.
> 
> Chapter Highlights 6  
> 1\. Butch give Angel her birthday card and dances with Angie at her birthday, in front of everyone, proving to her he is not afraid to say he wants her in front of everyone and starting the gossip train.  
> 2\. After the party, Butch pulls James aside, askes if he can talk to him in the reactor, James refuses, till Butch suggests his daughter’s secret gun range. James follows, suspicious of how he knows about it.  
> 3\. We will cut to Susie behind sexually assaulted by her brother Stevie in a…broom closet or something lol. Then the Susie will stay after the Stevie leaves and We will see a small conversation between Christine and Susie, where Christine will tell Susie, that she should tell someone who will listen to her. Susie goes to find Butch.


	8. Displaced...Then Rearranged

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry its been so long! I'm still active and still working on this. I plan to see it through!  
> I hope you guys enjoy it! I certainly enjoyed writing it!
> 
> Also! If you guys haven't read "Displaced", there's a little more insight into Susie's character and a few references to that fic, in this chapter. So I'd recommend having a look at that! (It's not necessary to get the full story here, but I think it brings out the whole "This Time-Line" and "That Time-Line" a whole lot more clearly.)  
> Disclaimer: I own nothing from Fallout 3!
> 
> I hope you all continue to follow me! I can't thank you all enough for the wonderful support! Thank you guys so much!!!  
> -Just Another

 

They’ve been sitting there for what feels like an hour or two. James, sitting opposite him. Quiet. He wasn’t sure really what to tell him, but the doctor’s been going over the chip’s data the whole time. The steel under his ass is cold and the vault, is much colder than he’s gotten used to over the years.

James…was silent through most of it.

Butch explained how The Lone Wanderer would follow after her father; she’d follow him and she’d start carving a legacy for herself, out of his own. What his wife told him over the years…bits and pieces only, whatever seemed vague, yet true about their lives together. It seemed harmless enough, sharing the stories he’d collected from her or with her over the years. He needed it, to share her memory. He felt like if he didn’t talk about her, that he’d forget and that it would tear him apart from the inside out.

Hunched over his knees, in that dark, cold storage room, he thought of her face. Smiling in the Wasteland sun and how warm the desert sands were beneath their feet. Since he woke up in the clinic, everything from before the vault, felt like a long dream that had never happened. It felt good to share that burden with someone and James, was the only one who he could tell. So he tells James, that he’s not sure if he should even be sharing anything at all.

He tells him, that he’s just as much in the dark about all… this “time travel mad scientist clusterfuck”, as he is. He admits, that he’s scared out of his mind. He admits that he’s scared, worried of changing everything and damaging how the world’s supposed to run, or worse. That nothing will change and The Enclave will win, no matter what happens tomorrow.

Sometimes people are given power, which they should never have. The old-world fell because of people like that. Bombs, fire, nuclear options and FEV…seemed like everything worthwhile to be discovered, ended badly. Scientists claimed progress or the betterment of mankind, but look where they were now? Butch learned a longtime ago, his wife’s face, crackling orange in the firelight, drifting by in his mind’s eye.

She told him many things, but the phrase and that night still sticks to him, the most. _“…War…war never changes.”_

He says next, without thinking, how much he loved his wife. A very simple phrase. His eyes downcast and his mind wandering. Picturing the stars and how she used to keep him warm by the campfire, no one else but the two of them. “…I loved her…” He says that with more conviction, than he ever could have at 17.

James looks up at him, still calculating. He speaks up, serious. “What became of her?” Butch takes his eyes off the ground for a moment, still feeling too heavy to want to look at Blackwell. He thinks of her face and her last words…the blood on his hands. He says how much he misses her, giving the other man a look that says he won’t say anymore. “…I miss her. Never planned on missing her this much…”

Butch laughs, feeling his strength drain out of him a bit. He can’t pretend he’s as young as he looks and so he doesn’t. He’s old and tired, complaining now more than really storytelling. “…who the fuck could plan for any of this? …damn woman always seemed like she had a plan…” He goes on like that and James doesn’t speak up for a while. He tells James, how fucked up it is, to miss her.

He says to the old doctor, rubbing the back of his neck, a habit he never grew out of, with a scowl. “When I woke up to her yesterday…I acted like we were married…” He feels the laughter bubble up fondly. “Oh, she sure didn’t like that…shit.” James hums, takes off his Pipboy and sets it to the side for a moment, responding amicably. “No. I expect she wouldn’t. She said you weren’t yourself…I can see why.” James seems to be swiping his finger across his Pipboy’s screen, simply listening, while he fiddles with it. He picks it up and puts it on his arm again, fishing a screwdriver out of his lab coat. “…you’re certainly not.”

The sight, makes Butch smile. It reminds him of someone. James is fully invested in the chip at least, as well as his story. Whether he decides to unravel its secrets, out of trust or curiosity, doesn’t matter to him as long as he can figure something out. Butch tells him something that he honestly hadn’t meant to bring up.

He says it offhandedly, a passing thought.

He says, that they named their first son after him. When the words leave him, the man finally looks away from the screen. There’s this moment they share. He can see it in James’ eyes. Questions beyond number.

When the Old Doctor, looks away, he seems… proud. Shaken by such a sincere and fatherly tone, coming out of his young mouth…but proud. The quiet settles in between them then. Butch knows, he has a finality to his tone that James doesn’t miss. Whether, he warns him about his own death or not, has been eating at Deloria through the whole conversation.

James mutters to himself under his breath, seemingly quick to change the subject. “Extraordinary…” When the man taps the chip with the screwdriver a little too roughly, Butch sees a tell-tale blue spark. His breath catches, blood running cold. Before Butch can act, there’s a crack like lightning and a blue spherical field of energy, forming around the doctor’s arm. James drops the tool and stares with a jolt of fascination…but there’s no fear in him. “…it’s almost as if…the data here…it’s…twisting and changing over…and over…it shouldn’t be as stable as it’s been…”

Butch’s voice comes out like a quiet roar. “-Whatever the hell you’re doing, you better stop and fuckin’ fast!” James takes his panic to heart and yet…he’s calm. Butch is on his feet, heart pounding and yet, he’s helpless. It pisses him off and yet, there’s James. He’s calm.

His wife was always calm too.

James’ brow furrows, the field crackling and attempting to spread over his arm, towards his shoulder. Without fear, the man thinks out loud, swiping at his Pipboy’s screen, no idea what he’s dealing with. “…but…with a few connected wires and prompts…something to even out the abnormalities…” The man is so cold in his voiced thoughts and that’s enough to send a chill down Butch’s spine. “You’re giving me a lot to take in at once you know. If I wasn’t seeing it with my own eyes…yet here it is.” He’s clinical and fearless…and Butch sees his daughter in the man before him. Without a word, James reaches down to retrieve the screwdriver, sticks his hand into the field, and taps the chip again with the metal.

Butch almost falls flat on his ass, when the field recedes back where it came from. He scoffs at the doctor, in disbelief. “Damn… Don’t have to fuckin’ tell me that. Hard for me to believe and I’m the asshole showing you…don’t send us anywhere we don’t need to be- fuck.” His words blunt. “I’ll give ya one thing, Doc. Your daughter got your brains **and** your balls.” James grunts with a small smile, his face kind. “Her mother’s looks.” Butch laughs, sitting taller.

His hands clasped in his lap, the irrefutable truth now hanging in the air between them. “It’s all pretty fucked.” Butch feels his hands shaking. The fear coursing through his bones like power armor coolant. He shrugs and crosses his arms, defensive. “Angie was always the strong one between us.” The words are fond and James, seems to take notice.

 His eyes flicker up, filled with curiosity towards him and Butch can’t help grinning. “I was just a lot bigger than her.” James huffs a quiet laugh, Butch’s shoulders going slack. There’s warmth in his heart, which only his wife can bring out in him. When it seems like this is the only place he’ll ever be able to tell the truth, honesty starts coming easy. He sighs, feeling an old man’s sadness fill his young bones. . “…She… she was never far…”

James seems to relax in his posture and Butch finally notices. The man in front of him was just as terrified as he was, but had a much better poker face. Like before, James just listens to him, while sentimental venom, starts seeping out of the Snake’s voice. “Got used to needing her… needed her around, a lot more than I could admit at first…my pride wouldn’t let me for a while…” He can’t look James in the face then, because he sees his daughter staring through his eyes, back him. Guilt flashes through him, as he stares down at his shaking hands. “Needed her a hell of a lot more, than she ever needed me…”

Feeling the cut of her absence, snaps something in him. He looks Dr. Blackwell head on, his face hard and his wife’s memory burning in his head. “-That Little Pipsqueak, was as stubborn as a fuckin’ Brahmin with 8 horns too.” He watches James back straighten once more, fueling his words. “…I **sure** as hell can’t do this on my own. Not from in here…” Butch pauses, James’ silence putting him a little on edge. He’s just thankful that the man’s still listening.

His arms uncross and his palms fall heavy on his knees. Butch lays it down, his future and his rallying cry. “But if we can get ahead of the Enclave… you’re the brains I need, to get ahead of the shit-storm that’s comin’.” Butch barks out a laugh, cocking his head to the side with good humor. “But I’d take a friendly ear at this point too…” James laughs, the man having a grasp on sarcasm, Butch only ever got to see in Evangeline. “Oh, that’s all then? Well, that’s good to know. Oh, _sure_. All very easy. Stop the Enclave, stop time from caving in on itself… just fit it into my schedule should I?” James shakes his head, seeming to take it all in.

Butch thinks he’s taking it better than most.

The doctor sighs, his face stoic. “…I certainly have a lot more on my plate now, haven’t I?” Butch goes to open his mouth, but James interrupts him, with a good natured expression. “So, here I am. The brains and the ears of this… _war effort,_ am I?” Butch scoffs a little, rehashing something his wife used to tease him with. “Can’t have a war with only two people, James.” Blackwell hums, his tone polite. “Respectfully …I disagree. At times that’s all war really is. Two people tossing stones at each other.” When James closes the panel on his Pipboy, the Snake takes note of it, nodding as James goes back to looking, at who knows what on the screen. “You should hold onto that. Make notes, run tests. Figure out how to keep that _crazy blue **shit**_ under control.”

James gives him a wry look and Butch just smiles. “Ya know? Whatever you **Brains** do.” James answers him sharply. “You’d just hand it over then? No doubt in doing so?” Butch wants to say he doubts every moment of every day. Instead, he says what he thinks is best. “Hey, better you holding onto that, than me.” The old snake wants to lighten the mood, so he grins, making light of a dark moment. “I was always more leather than brains anyway. But I got enough faith, that you can look past that and do the right thing.”

James smiles at that and Butch chuckles. There’s this wistful feeling in the air. A regret. A wish that James had been alive for them to share this moment, a longtime ago. The words come out as an attempt at a joke.

They get stuck there though. A heavy hand between them, when Butch says it. “…Your daughter did.” The phrase seems to drain the humor out of them both. Slowly though… the man seemed to soften towards him. With every word Butch spoke about his daughter, James seemed to look at him differently.

The Doctor has listened quietly to him for over an hour. He’s only interjected a few statements and hasn’t asked many questions. Although, Butch can see it in his eyes, that he’s got many. Butch clears his throat, barking orders like he’s commanding a Brotherhood Initiate. “You should guard that with your last breath, since you know I’m not bullshitting you.” As an afterthought, Butch says it firmly. “…Should keep this **story** of mine to yourself, while you’re working on it.”

Butch can’t really read the man’s face. How he responds, gives Butch an odd rush of pride. “You… you turned out better than I thought you would. I must admit.” Butch stares at the man in the lab coat, with an expectant gaze. James speaks with him then, like an equal and it’s humbling. “Purity comes first. Over everything, my experiments for the project have to come first…but I can promise I’ll do what I can.” Butch agrees with him, his fingers tightening lightly on his knees. “Purity comes first. That’s all I’m asking for. Do what you can.”

Butch sits there, locking eyes with a cunning side to James, he’d never seen before, wryness in the doctor’s words. “Oh, you’re asking a lot more of me than that…” There was a lot to the old doctor that he’d never seen before. His eyes had gotten sharper…and even with just the one, they’d stayed sharp over the years. When James rises to his feet, there’s a look of determination in his eyes. His voice even. “If everything you’ve told me is true, then there’s no one else you _could_ tell. Not a story like the one you’ve just recounted.”

When James speaks, Butch is smart enough to listen. “I like to think I can recognize a liar… no matter how good they think they are.” James nods his head, as if coming to terms with something in his mind. “…you’ve got the same look I had in my eyes. The look I had when I first dreamed of Project Purity with so many others. You know…” James had a way of speaking, which Butch could respect. He could have been a great leader if he’d lived a little longer. James’ words leave him bristling a bit, anxious. “…I’ve been told quite a few stories in my lifetime. I have been told quite a few lies too. It’s hard to spot the difference unless you know what you’re looking for.”

Butch gets to his feet, his words running away with him, before he can reign them in. “I swear, Blackwell, I’m telling the truth-“But James just carries on, his voice raising higher. “-I have seen a lot of good people die, because of lies.” Butch takes a step forward, but James just raises his chin, with a kind face. His words weigh heavy on him. “-and as comforting as it might be, for me to say you’re a liar… I’ve never really been one for too much comfort.” Butch wants to ask him why he’s lecturing him.

Instead, he listens. Because a man knows when to listen and when to keep his mouth shut. The rush of relief that flows through him when James starts laughing, is only beaten by the doctor’s words. “How I wish I didn’t believe you. Yes, Butch. I know you’re not _bullshitting_ me.” James was a Waster and Butch knew a Wastelander when he saw one. He knew fear when he heard it too.

…and James was afraid. He was certainly too smart not to be. James walks forward and pats him on the shoulder, leaving Butch a little speechless. “Oh, I can spot liars, Son. But the worst is when you spot the truth. And no one else wants to see it.” Butch almost jumps when another hand lands on his other shoulder. James has the look his wife had to her, whenever they would dive head first, straight into other people’s problems.

An expression only a true martyr could make.

He shakes him with a goodhearted tone. “You’ve got a lot of good in you, Son.” When James reaches a hand down to shake his, Butch takes it without pause. The way James accepts it all…is almost too well. Butch’s face softens in surprise, shaking his future father-in-law’s hand. “You’re a lot tougher than I remember, Doc.” When James hums in acknowledgement, he turns his back to him and sighs.

Butch scoffs. “So, that’s it, huh? No more questions for me?” Butch feels their burden weigh heavy, humor escaping him. “Not that I’m bitchin’ about it. Don’t have answers anyway.” His heart clenches, as James looks over his shoulder, with an almost irritatingly gentle expression. The word “son”, holds more meaning to him then, than it ever has. “Well…only one that comes to mind…Son…” Butch stares at the man’s back, watching him walk away.

James stops at a crate that’s level with his hands and Butch notices how his posture seems to weaken. His shoulders have sagged a bit, almost disheartened. At least he didn’t have to hold the burden of the future alone. There are some questions, which he’s not sure he can answer. For one…how could he look this man in the eye and tell him exactly how he died?

Explain the details that his own daughter had to give him.

The question that does get thrown at him, is not what he expected. James didn’t ask about the vault or how he died or even if he did. He didn’t ask anything, nothing so momentous. The question that he did ask him, however, was so hard for him to answer, he almost doesn’t. The father of the woman he loves, turns and looks him straight on.

With the love of a father, that living ghost who’d done so much for the world, askes him something simple. This person who the Wasteland remembered as a hero. The giant shoes, his daughter had filled. James asked him, with quiet grace, which Butch didn’t possess. “…Was she happy?” It settles like a stone in his guts.

His heart feels heavy, guilt rearing its ugly head. He thinks of blonde hair, shining in the Wasteland sun. She’s laughing at a joke he might have told her or well, he can’t remember. Her laughter is all that comes to mind. Tears spring up out of the blue.

James looks stoic, just waiting.

Till he repeats it again, still eerily calm and put together. “Did you make her happy?” There’s a loss inside him at that question, he can’t contain. He shuts his eyes, seeing her holding his son again. It’s a question he can’t bear to answer, because even he’s not sure of the answer. He hopes he knows the answer.

He’s not ashamed, of the few tears he wipes away with the back of his hand. His laugh is like dust and the answer he gives, is honest. A sigh that shakes him to his bones. “…I’d like to think so.” His answer, seems to be enough. James takes a breath and just nods.

James takes a deep breath of his own alright, a long one. For the first time, despite their conversation, James looks affected. The man turns away, his voice pained. “Well then…” Butch stands tall…listening. Not because it’s the smart thing to do…but because it’s all that he can do.

James was a man he could trust. He could handle things and get things done. Most of all, no one knew what it was like to love the Lone Wanderer, as well as her father. Butch hears that shared love they have for her in James’ voice. “…I guess that’s all I wanted for her then. Safety aside…” Butch watches the man lay his hands down on the storage crate before him.

In need of support.

James stays there for a long pause, leaning his weight atop that steel. Butch wishes he could give him peace, to let everything settle nicely, but the need for a plan is glaringly clear. They’re both men of action anyway…peace just being the best outcome. Butch speaks up, tears dried away. “Well Doc, we shook on it, so maybe it’s not fair, but I gotta question for you…” With a rather hollow cough of a laugh, Butch presses on. “Where do we go from here?”

James is quiet. He’s quiet for a while. Perhaps he’s reviewing his options with his back to him. Though, when he does break the silence, his answer is simple. It’s simple, yet oddly profound.

His eyes flicker back over to his Pipboy’s screen. “According to this…. there’s only forward or backwards.” James straightens, his voice a bit more gruff than it’s been. “What about my baby girl, then?” Butch is caught off guard by the question, even as James needles him with it again. “My daughter? Just what do you plan to do with her?” He answers him too quickly, because he’s already known the answer from the first day he woke up. “Gonna make up for lost time! Keep her out of all this! Why do you think I came to **you,** James?” James stiffens, but Butch can’t see his face.

His mouth moves faster with his heart at the wheel, than with his brain. “I love her more than I’m afraid of dying…for a man like me, that love’s- that kind of love doesn’t go away. Not even if the whole world digs a grave for itself for good.” He stutters, feeling uncomfortable expressing his feelings to…to her father. “Tch, maybe not even then…” Butch feels an edge, feeling this odd desire, to please the man. James still isn’t looking at him and that…as old as he is, it makes him squirm. He clears his throat, feeling a blush rise to his face, as he gets…awkwardly formal with the man. “…I…never did get to ask you for your blessing…I would have…”

 When the man’s eyes are back on him again, Butch almost feels nervous. A father’s protective nature, coils in James’ eyes, as well as his words. “…was I not around to give it?” There it is. The question Butch dreads to answer. He clenches his fists and…it’s tempting to warn him.

It’s tempting to try and save the man, which his wife had sacrificed so much for. Butch knew all about temptation…he knew better than to give into it, when so much was on the line. His chin raised in his resolve to side step the question, but James hears the answer, hidden in his words. “…I think we’ve both got time to make up for. Too much that’s already gone….that we’ll never get back.” Again…it’s heavy. Butch feels it, like gravity has begun to drag his hope into the ground.

He can’t quite say why, but the guilt eats at him, like he’d given James a death sentence. James was a survivor through and through, but death doesn’t wait. Butch isn’t sure what look has taken over his face…but it feels like he’s storming Eden’s gates again. His voice, hard and rough…a soldier’s voice. “Better get started, Doc.” While James takes on the face, of a wise tactician.

It’s a pact between two men, who know the art of war better than most. James smiles at him, like he already knows…he knows one day that he will die. He doesn’t push for more. Butch thinks he’s wise enough not to. Only one phrase, which could really mark the occasion. James says it rather plainly, once again leaning over his hands.

“…Forward it is then.”

At least now, there was someone else to share the weight of it all. It had been unbearably heavy to carry alone. Every dark thought he’d had and every bittersweet memory, it brought him back. Back to a place, where he’d once been happy. Now, James would do what he promised and Butch?

…Butch was just happy, to have a good pair of ears listening to him.

 

_“Happiness used to come in a bottle, back before the war. They sold it by the droves…did you know that? That you could buy happiness, Freddy-Dear?”_

Federico Gomez, had found the bottle.

Evangeline’s voice, felt kind, even though it was so far away from him. “Amata-naut…can you…would you not?” Angel… _Su adorado_. His **Adored.** How he adored her so. She was such a kind person… though she probably only pitied him, just like her father did.

He wrote words over words about it, the screaming unfairness of it; silent one-sided-love.

Amata looked at her…just like he did though- with secrets in her eyes. Angel never noticed the way the dark skinned girl eyed her. Freddie did. The Vault Princess was just as sly as him. Then again…maybe the blonde did see, but chose to ignore it for the sake of their companionship.

She was such a kind person…and she was kind enough to keep the lie alive. About what the three of them were. Friends. Close friends. …the party’s gotten quieter and his head’s trying to touch the ground again.

He was the pretender. The “flight risk”. Ever since, he’d tried to hang himself in his bedroom when he was 14, that had been his label. Freddie was very skilled at reading labels. His pills had labels just like his peers had labels.

Even Evangeline had labeled him. That wasn’t her fault though. He didn’t blame her. After all, he was the one pretending... but wasn’t she pretending too? When it came to his chems, she just couldn’t help reminding him.

He was a head case. She was the doctor’s daughter and he knew part of her only really visited, out of obligation. Maybe even only because her father asked her to at the start? Either way, today he’d managed to actually get out of bed. Of course the first thing she asked him was clinical.

His chems. _“Freddie did you take your chems?”_ she’d say. _“Freddie, what about your chems?”_ was the question she always had for him. He’d shuffle around it shyly most days, but today was her birthday and the drinks were strong.

No one really wanted to hear about his inner demons though. So when she asked him today, he played the fool and she pushed and then? He gave her the look when he didn’t want to talk about the truth, telling her to “stop”. She really didn’t want to face it either and that was ok. That was how they all stayed together.

Freddie the Freak, the “flight risk”. Amata the Overseer’s Heir, “the bulimic baroness”. …and Evangeline, the Doctor’s Daughter, the “guilty conscience”. He was sure talking would only get him committed again, so he stayed committed to keeping himself in bottles. Freddie was very skilled at storing things into bottles.

When Angel pats him on the chest, he realizes that his vision’s blurry. He knows that it’s not good to mix chems and alcohol, but sometimes it’s easier to pretend if he does. His ears pick up concern in his guardian angel’s voice, his guilty conscience without a clue. “…Look, we can talk about it later.” He feels her holding his weight up, her shoulders, a comfort under his arm. Then she does what everyone does and it hurts.

She talks like he’s not there. “…Amata? Do you think you can walk him home?” It stings, but he’s very good at covering for himself. If Mr. James knew he still thought life was pointless, he’d probably just give him more chems. He was still a nihilist and there was still very little proof that anything about life, actually mattered at all. So he laughs, because it’s funny that Angie’s pawning him off, on the Princess of “nothing makes a difference”, when he just wants to be alone.

His voice is smooth, for a drunk. “Hey, don’t worry buddy… don’t worry! I’m great! A-ok, Angel.” He’d rather swallow a bottle cap, than be forced to walk hanging off of Amata right then. His vision wasn’t at its best, but he’d never be able to turn a blind eye, to how the Vault Princess coveted what wasn’t hers. It wasn’t his either and he accepted that. By the dirty look Amata gave him, she was thinking the same thing he was, with a lot less acceptance.

It was at times like this, when it became clear, that Evangeline Blackwell, was probably the only thing they had in common anymore. It put a strain on them both to put up the act. Whether the blonde noticed their mutual attraction to her or didn’t, was a game he liked to play with himself. It was self-destructive and he always felt like he deserved a little pain, for all the lies he told. He lied about being happy.

He lied to his parents. He lied to the doctor. He even lied to himself. He was very good at lying. It was all that he could do to keep from knotting his bedsheets into a noose again.

Almodovar’s voice had begun to eat at him lately and now was no different. “I don’t know Evangeline… you know I would, but-“She couldn’t dig them out of it however, because when Angel felt obligated, she was very set in her ways. “-but what?” Freddie heard the argument and Amata wasn’t as good at pretending, as he was. It wasn’t the first time that she’d have let her own selfish feelings, destroy what they’d built over the years. So, even with a head full of pins and daggers, he was sly enough to get to his feet.

He puts on a goofy smile, nailing their coffin shut. He says it to Amata, not daring to look down at the Angel who had been on the right of his shoulder. “You heard her, Princess.”  There’s this moment of animosity they share, before he stumbles a little and Amata gets up. She shoulders him quickly and complains. “God, Freddie! Are you made of lead?” He’s letting more weight fall onto the brunette than he has to.

He’s secretly spiteful at times.

When Evangeline slides out of the booth, she’s flanking him, ready to carry his weight too. He’s going to let her, but Amata doesn’t give him the satisfaction. She sighs like she’s upset and it gives him very little enjoyment, but there’s also a petty relief too. “No, Angie. I have him, I’ll take him…” He still feels her shoulders ready to carry the weight of his other arm again. It’s just like Evangeline to protest. “…are you sure? Fred, do you want me to come too?”

She’s giving him the choice. Of course she is. Her voice full of obligation. Sometimes, he hates that obligation enough to write for days at a time. He shakes his head and gives her a dopey smile, because he can’t help it around her. “…’s no way to spend the rest of your party.”

Even impaired, he sees her mouth opening to insist. He lets the lid open a little, something final spilling out from the bottle, without him planning on it to. “-I’m fine. Don’t worry.” At the worst of times and the best of times, Amata was actually better at seeing his hidden bottles than anyone. So when she’s stealing him away, she tells Evangeline that she’s got it covered. Then they’re walking through the crowd which has begun to form again.

When it’s just the two of them and their mutual friend is out of earshot, he’s pulling away. Much to his displeasure, Amata is also stubborn when obligated. “-Hey, stop tugging! It’s not that far.” He feels the pity in her voice and can’t stand up to it. He’s not really able to keep the bottle closed either, not when his head is buzzing. He grumbles it, his mask slipping off him. “…let go.”

She doesn’t. She just sighs, getting her father’s no-nonsense kind of tone with him. “You couldn’t stand… -and even if you could, don’t think I’m going to let you tell her, that I let you walk home alone!” He goes quiet then, letting her drag him out of the diner for a few more feet. No one knows the way his thoughts build up inside his mind.

If he’s not talking, that just means the thoughts are too loud to talk over. He’s a flight risk and nobody knows it. The vault was small and cold, pointless and unbearable. Nobody noticed it like he did and what he got for the truth, were more bottles. He can be mean too when he wants to be.

He stutters it like he doesn’t know what he’s saying, but he does. “I…n-notice how you keep staring at her…” he scowls and she stumbles. She tells him something along the lines of “let’s not talk”, but it’s muffled. Instead he turns and whispers something cruel into her ear, so she’ll just leave him alone. “She told me when you kissed her…the night after…” When she tells him to shut up, he doesn’t.

He pushes, because he hates being pushed. He studied how people spoke and kept to himself most days. He kept to himself and he ate at himself and he ate at himself and he ate his brain up and…

…he pushes her to shove him away, when he takes a bite into her. Brings up what he knows is her worst fear. “…she said she didn’t feel anything…but what she really meant was, that she felt sorry for you…” It’s her worst fear and if he ever tried to kiss her too, he knew it would be another pill he’d have to swallow. She pushes him away and he hits the wall roughly. He feels relief, but when he sees the anger in those dark brown eyes of hers, he feels terrible.

He should have known better, he shouldn’t have said it. Why was he such a loser? Why was he so spineless? Why, why, why, why-? –She turns her back on him.

Before she does, she gives him a look that fills him with self-loathing. Her voice far too even, lacking anything inside it. “Don’t kill yourself. …or she’ll kill us both.” He wishes he didn’t feel so empty all the time. When she walks away, he feels sorry. He’s eating at himself again.

Always eating himself, scratching and tearing at his own brain. He was a truth seeker, even as much as he was troubled. Just like no one wanted to see the truth, nobody wanted to look and see trouble in him. He was “poor”, “sweet” Freddie to the adults and Evangeline too. He was haunted by his own thoughts, like a ceiling fan running in circles.

They didn’t make it very far away from the diner, before he pushed Amata away. He did it in his own non-physical way. He was very good at keeping people out. If people knew what he was thinking, they’d never leave him alone. Sometimes, that’s exactly what he needed to make the thoughts die down.

He needed to isolate himself in his room. He needed to just exist and he’d be fine. He only wished he didn’t have so many words locked away. One thing about the Tunnel Snakes, was that they never cared what anyone thought of them. He envied them.

He wanted to be free of the words and the labels. More than anything. He stumbles forward, his face covered in anxiety once the burst of jealousy subsides. Then he goes numb and his face is blank. His brain is not.

When he looks up, he’s a little surprised by who comes barreling past. Strawberry red. A flash of it, that has him following it with his dark unfocused eyes. Susie Mack was always talking about him behind his back and she didn’t stand out from everyone else in that regard. Though, as he makes his way home, he notices the black and blue on her skin, when she rounds the corner.

The tears streaming down her face.

He sees the same look in her eyes, which he sees every day in his own. He wonders if she likes to count bottles too? His mother was a flight risk and he knew the look well enough. He knew his own flaws and made up new ones for himself daily. His room was filled with words written in old-fashioned quill and inkbottle scrawl.

A gift from his father, because James said it might help him cope…and funnily enough, it did.

He’s thinking about the ink and how badly he needs to get the words out. The words are always in him, so many. Nobody knows though. He likes it that way and it’s comforting sometimes, just as much as it’s painful to bottle them. If he’s good at making Evangeline smile, it’s honestly just because life in 101 is and always will be, just one big joke to him.

It’s one big joke. The same thing every day. The same tragic human errors throughout history, repeating like that broken ceiling fan in his mind. His bedroom walls were covered in many different expressions and poems. Stories about the sad joke, which life had always been to him. 

Things that would surely make Evangeline cry or James commit him. They weren’t funny jokes. They were hard truths and sometimes, they scared him too. Life was pointless and the only thing that kept him breathing, was the ink and the many, many bottles. Sometimes the funniest joke there is, is that the punchline is hiding in plain sight, but no one gets it.

He wasn’t laughing though.

Susie didn’t look like she was laughing either.

She feels sick walking back without keeping her promise.

Amata Almodovar clutched at her stomach while she stood there, looking back into the diner through the doorway. Her arms crossed around her middle like armor. She held herself together, preparing to walk back through the bustling crowd. She felt ill. She knows she shouldn’t have said that to him.

She’d meant it in a stern, friendly and if not honest way, but she could have been better at handling him.

Freddie could be a very mean drunk, when the 3rd of their trio wasn’t around. She’d know. They’d drank together without her a few times. It was fun to drink and her father didn’t need to know. He knew too much already.

Her stomach growls and she stops hugging herself. People are once again dancing through the aisles. It’s so filled up, she can’t see back to the booth, which she’d just came from. She waits there for a minute or two…longer. She knows she shouldn’t lie, but Freddie will cover for her.

She should have just walked him home.

She carries herself with pride and finally walks back through the door. She shuffles away from party goers and follows the wall around the room. The jukebox is too damn loud! So loud, when she calls for her best friend, she can’t even hear her own voice. She ends up stumbling out of the crowd, her hands catching herself on the table they’d all been sitting at.

When she looks around however…Evangeline’s not there. Her stomach cramps up again. She’d have something to stave her hunger, but her father would know. Somehow, he always knew. She hoped that one day, she could change it all around.

Then she’d be in charge of her own life and maybe, everything could be better?

She could stop the Pairing Polls forever and give women more freedom. She could love who she liked and perhaps people would love her in return. She could marry who she wanted, instill harsher rules on crime, and become the Overseer the vault needed. Evangeline might come around one day too. Angie might- _“…she said she didn’t feel anything…but what she really meant was, that she felt sorry for you.”_

She scowls and complains. “Oh, come on! Where’d you run off to? Really?” She was better than this. She could put her childish whims aside. The feelings that… the love she knew would choke and die, because of obligation. Oh yes, and she had too many.

She was good at keeping them in order though. Her life was normal. Her father did what was best for everyone, even if he could be harsh at times. She was normal. She liked _boys._

She feels oddly lost now, standing there in a party that’s not meant for her. So she finds her way to where the music’s the loudest. She leans against the wall, after pushing through more people. When as if it couldn’t be any more disappointing a day, a very soft, smooth male voice has her shoulders stiffening. “…great party…don’t you think?” Her friends nowhere nearby and of course, he was still there.

Tunnel Snakes are like fungus; they stick together. Paul wasn’t the worst of them, but he let Butch call all the shots between them, so he wasn’t much better either. Her eyes glance at him, as he sidles up beside her. He’s not the last person she wants to see, but she really would just rather stick to the corner. Away from conversations.

She nods at him politely, arms folding around her middle, defensively. “Afternoon, Paul...” She shrugs, scowling at him. “I’d ask what Butch is planning, but you wouldn’t tell me would you?…” Paul shrugs, his hands sheepishly shoved into his jean pockets. “No... honestly? I’m not really sure. He just kind of pulled me along….” As if remembering he’s supposed to be imposing, he puffs out his chest halfheartedly at her. “…But Tunnel Snakes go where ever we want! So…yeah.”

She sighs, feeling the gnawing of hunger in her belly again. She rolls her eyes and mumbles at him, not feeling up to talking with anyone at the moment. “…I’m not in the mood for your propaganda. Can’t you just leave me alone?” She glances at the Tunnel Snake on her right and sees his face fall. His voice is soft-spoken and once again, sheepish. “…Oh. I mean…well…” She’s about ready to abandon him there, when he makes a comment that has her reeling.

It’s not cruel. It’s clumsy and quiet. His voice smooth, his dark skin and leather jacket, standing out against the starkness of the wall behind him. “You know, uh, you look sad sometimes… when you’re talking to your friends…and Butch kind of ran off somewhere…so…” She scoffs and rounds on him, feeling the irony of him noticing a thing like that. “-I really don’t need to hear that from you!” She’s not sure why she doesn’t just retreat back to the booth.

Something about him, has her wanting to stay.

Or maybe it’s just the fact that she’ll be waiting for Evangeline, again? Waiting for her to come back and keep her company. There’s something bitter in that, in being busy when or if she returns. Angel really is her only friend…what kind of an Overseer only has one friend? She can’t help that everyone else is jealous of her or prone to fearing her father.

That, they avoid her and don’t want to get to know her.

When Paul rubs the back of his neck, his face is covered with shy concern. There’s also this discomfort she can’t place. The African-American boy’s rather slim shoulders shrug again and when he asks her to dance, it’s not the worst idea to her. If he weren’t a Tunnel Snake, she’d have the strangest feeling, that Paul would have been very introverted. At first she says the first thing that comes to her, which is. “Uh, no. No thanks! I don’t dance with Tunnel Snakes.”

When the boy turns his eyes down to his boots, he mutters awkwardly. “Oh…ok…” She should have left, but when he shrugs again, of course she’s staring at him. He’s got oddly angular features, almost handsome, if he wasn’t part of the problem. Tunnel Snakes were nothing but problems and poor choices. She couldn’t hate Paul though.

Somehow, it felt like Butch had been tugging him along for the ride, ever since they were children. There was a time when she’d wanted to fit in, so a piece of her understood it. Her father had made it very clear to her though, that as Overseer, she’d fit in no matter where she was. It was one of the few comforting things her father had said to her. That and…that sometimes he missed her mother as much as she did.

So when a slow song plays, she comes to the realization that she’d rather not just sit still. No matter how hungry she is or irritated. She’s not sure why, but she turns to him and says. “…but…I guess today’s the exception…Angie…she ran off too… just don’t step on my feet ok?” The way he smiles is very…reserved. It’s reserved, but genuine.

She’s taking his arm and soon, she doesn’t feel so…empty at the moment.

Even if the hunger still eats at her.

…not only for a good meal, but for the things she can’t admit to.

The things she’s **obligated** to ignore.

She’s just a normal girl, with a very keen eyed snake, and too many people to cut through.

He wasn’t there.

He wasn’t at home.

He wouldn’t be in the diner.

He wasn’t in the reactor.

So she gave up and made for the doctor.

There was only one error, when she finally got ahold of herself. When she rounded the corner…James wasn’t there either. She stood and tried the lock on the clinic door for a few minutes. Feeling hollowed out, she grew frantic and began to pound on the door. She didn’t get an answer.

When all she’d wanted to fix the face he’d given her, full of bruises, no one was there. Why was no one there? The slow calm she’d managed to gain, in making her way to the clinic, began to drop out in front of her. Her tears started dropping before she even felt them. Her face felt swollen and so did her neck.

She felt ugly.

When out of the darkest of her thoughts, she could only find one way out of them. She couldn’t go home. She couldn’t hide anywhere there weren’t security cameras. She had nowhere. The only thought that could make her bones crack back into motion, was of his face.

Butch. Where was Butch? She had to find him. He’d make it go away. Sure, she wasn’t so pretty or cool anymore, but he never really told her “no”.

She never really asked for much.

She’s not sure how long it took her to round the corner, but her blood felt like ice in her veins. Her chest was cold. She told herself that she’d be fine. She told herself she was going to die. In the end her mind was crumbling and the mask she wore, was covered in bruises.

When she passes the diner, she’s in a fog. The corners of her vision, fuzzing out. Tunnel vision. She’s already looked for him everywhere that her scattered brain could. She’s so angry that she’s sad.

People pass her by, but she can’t hear them. People whisper to themselves, but she can’t see them. She catches Freddie, leaning up against the wall, with downcast eyes. She doesn’t notice much more than that, as she keeps on walking. She needs something to patch the wound today.

Butch won’t tell her no. He’ll tell her she’s pretty even though she’s ugly and cruel. He can make the words sound nice, even if everything’s all wrong. She’s got herself completely convinced of it. That’s why she’d got to find him.

He won’t ask questions and he’ll just give her want she wants.

Maybe in another life, James would have been there to help cover her shame? If only he had been. A few quick stims and she’d have been all better. The bruises would be gone and no one could tell. She’d tell the doctor she’d tripped and that would be all.

He wouldn’t believe her, but she’d still get to leave. He’d press for more information, but she’d keep the skeletons shoved into her closet. She couldn’t bring herself to pass by _that_ closet…she’d even gone the long way around it. She couldn’t bear to think about it on the same day, so she thought her way around it. She thought about Butch and she thought about asking him to take her back to his place.

It was a lot easier to think about that, than what her brother had done to her.

She just had to find him and she could pretend again. She’s rounding the corner, hearing the music in the diner loud and muffled. Butch would be in the reactor. He liked to smoke there…he was probably hiding it from her again. He might be there if she looked really hard.

She might find the broken pieces of herself there with him. She had to hold it together. This was her life. She had to be strong. She WAS strong!

She was a Mack. She was popular and everyone was smart enough to leave her be. She wasn’t weak minded and she knew the way of the vault. She kept herself apart from the rest of all the other girls. …and NOBODY could take that from her.

Nobody…not even her own kin.

James left before him.

They’d sat and talked a while longer, but they both decided to leave separately.

They wouldn’t talk outside of the range and Butch had already given him everything he needed.

Though, when he watched the Doctor open the door and close it again, he got a little restless at the sight.

To him, it felt like he was just back to sitting on his hands, while other people did all the work.

Butch was always on the move. He’d learned to keep moving to keep out of danger and himself at peace. He couldn’t stand being stuck in one spot for too long. Excluding Megaton. He’s pacing the floor now, after listening to James go up the stairs a few minutes ago.

He was thinking of his options now. He’d thought a weight would be lifted after passing the chip off, but no. Now, it just felt even more frustrating to him all of a sudden. What the hell was he supposed to do now? He was happy to be back to make up for all the mistakes he’d made back here, but there was also this familiar feeling of being “stir crazy”.

Evangeline was where his mind began to wander and as it did, his pacing began to slow. Passing the time with her would be more than he could ever ask for. If he put all his attention on her, he could relax a little more. She was always the voice of reason, when he was hotheaded and bothered. He’s thinking about Paul now.

He chuckles to himself, looking forward to passing some time with him too. Paul had more sense than he’d ever listened to…so of course thinking of Paul would help his mood. The dread of the future worming around in the back of his head, kept telling him that he was thinking too much about ghosts. Scowling at it, he curses. “Shit…”

When 10 minutes goes by, only then does he find himself out. He’s careful to shut the door behind him. He glancing up at the INACCESSABLE over the door and smirks. He never knew. He sets everything else aside and the thought of returning to the party, fills his chest.

With each step he takes, his eyes fall low. He left Paul behind and he’s curious if he’s still there? He thinks about buying him a drink and realizes, that he’s not old enough to. He jogs up the stairs, feeling warm, but not like smiling too big. He resigns to sneak into the reserves and steal himself a bottle or two later.

There was one kind of scotch he’d always loved down in the vault. His mother raised him on it in a way. Rattle-Snake Whiskey, wasn’t something he’d find down here, but that’s his favorite. If not for the taste, than just the fact that his wife knew him too well.

He’s not even sure where the hell she found it.

It’s not very often he gets caught off guard. Then again, nothing like this happens to him “often”. So, when he makes the last step at the top of the reactor stairs, it does catch him off guard. His eyes dart up from the stairs and his face falls. So many ghosts and he’d been thinking of all the friendly ones.

He hadn’t stopped to think about all the ones who weren’t. “…Butch…” Her green eyes are red and one’s swollen blue. You see a lot of pain when you live a long time. It’s life. Life is pain and blood…it’s ugly.

His voice is rough and his heart twists with guilt. “…Susana…” He stands stock still, his eyes covering her quickly. He never treated her right. He never did anything. He should have.

When the red headed girl walks up to him, it’s quick. He’s in shock. Every twisted feeling he’d ever hidden, starts to unravel. He loved her…just not how either of them pretended. He should have loved her better.

When her arms wrap around his shoulders, he’s half aware of what’s about to happen. He knows it in his chest, that she’s about to kiss him. There’s this weak spot in him, that can’t say no to her. Not right then. His arms at his sides, as two bruised lips meet his so softly.

He doesn’t shut his eyes at first, because he knows he’ll only see blonde. He doesn’t push her off. He lets her…because if there’s one thing he’s sure to give her, is the goodbye he never got to. He leans back and she knows somethings different.

He can see the fear in her eyes. The fear that he knows… he knows who put that fear into her eyes. It’s surreal. A mistake. A betrayal he shouldn’t have let happen, but he cared for her.

He swallows hard, because she looks worse than he’d ever noticed. His hands come up and he curls his fingers around her wrists carefully. When she speaks, she’s whispering and not quite herself. “…don’t call me that…” He moves her away, but she goes to kiss him again. He knows it’s wrong now and it’s always been that way.

He came to fix mistakes, not fuck everything up twice over. He turns his head away, shakes his head at him. He remembers his son and how he might have spoken to him. That’s the tone of voice which leaves him. “…No…” He sighs, heartbroken, because even for him it’s one hell of a sight to take in. “…not when you look like this…”

The vents chose then to come on. The air cycling through the vents loudly, in the pause which follows. Her wrists in his hands, her hands now on his chest, as he tries to compose himself. When she chokes it’s like strangled cat and her voice hurts to hear. “…Butchie…” He can’t even look at her.

She tries to fight him, to kiss him again, but he’s stronger. Not that he ever used it with her. He’d never have used it with her. She was a softer kind of girl, even though she was mean. She had her reasons and he had his.

It didn’t make it right. He really had become just like his wife. A bleeding heart. A push-over. A goddamned Goody-Two-Shoes.

So he says it to her again. “No.” She struggles and he’s frustrated. Everything going on and now this? It’s too much not to get pissed about. So when she says what she always did… it hits him deep. “…please…please, just…c-come on…let’s go…b-back to your place…”

She always wanted to come over, but she only asked if she didn’t want to go home. He was usually the one asking her to stop by, after they’d slept together. He used to be lonely in the weirdest way and Susie knew what to say to fill that loneliness. She got close, but he never really let her all the way in. In the end, she hadn’t let him in at all…not in any of the ways that mattered.

He feels her try to step closer, but he can’t let her. It’s not right. He can’t step back though, because the stairs aren’t far. So he ends up taking a step forward and pushing her lightly ahead of him. He sighs, his problems coming out in a gruff tone he didn’t mean to use. “…No. I said no and we’re not doing this anymore…you’re not gonna do this anymore-“

He wants to finish his thought. He wants to say that she’s not going to do this to herself anymore. He would have, if she hadn’t of said the words, which he later learned, were only a cunning ploy for her to use him. She never loved him, but she always ran to him- of course she did. She always just wanted him to- “-I just want to forget. …please…just…make me forget him, Butch…”

An old anger shows itself that he didn’t know he carried. An old hurt he forgot about. He shoves her off him and raises his voice, wondering how his wife would react, if she knew he kissed someone other than her. “-No, Susie! I said no. I’m not gonna do this. We’re not. We’re done doing this…never again…” He knew he’d have to end things with her…he just didn’t know when it would happen. He’d thought it’d been a quiet sit down.

Just the two of them, sitting at his house and talking this through.

Mack’s weren’t the best at talking though. He wasn’t very good at that shit either. If all the negotiating had been left up to him, Ange’ and him would have had to pay double for everything. So, of course when she gets it in her head, she’s tearing her wrists out of his hands. She gets this mad-housewife kind of smile, tears pouring out of her eyes and her voice cracking up hysterically. “W…what are you sayin’ to me right now?”

He’s not used to seeing women cry. Ange’ rarely did, but it felt easy to comfort her after doing it for so long. He’s scowling and at a loss. He takes a breath and tries to say the right thing. “Hey… shh… Susie-Q…” She’s not herself though and he sees it when her face turns livid.

The anger is ugly. He can’t bear to look at it, because he knows he’s hurting her. He didn’t want to hurt her. She’d been through enough of that. Her voice is high and when she takes a step back, she’s got her hands on her head, clutching. “…you never cared before… _when I look like this_?...you… you’re not serious…?”

He sees her backing away and he knows that…that’s not normal. His eyed widen for brief moment, surprised. She might have slapped him before…he’s fairly certain. It feels like something he remembers from a far off dream. He takes a step up and he looks her dead in the eyes, voice firm, his face covered in strength and honesty. “…I’ve always cared…I’ve just never said anything…”

She backs up and he follows. She puts her hands up, trying to hold herself together. Talking disjointedly. “…no…not…you never did…you’re supposed to say, _I’m pretty today_ …you always…you never…” She’s sobbing and when her eyes grow cold, he feels the freeze. “-I never ask you for anything! What’s…what’s gotten into you?” He knows what he should have done that night she came to him.

When she begged him to forget and he tried for her. He knew what he should have done and now’s when he’ll do it. When he was young, he was always afraid. Insecure, without purpose. He approaches her and his face feels pained, when he does what he should have years ago. “…I’m not going to stand here and lie to you anymore…”

He watches her young face contort and he wants to cry, because the bruises bring back memories. He wants to shelter her. His voice is shaky, his heart open, a man’s resolve being laid out before her. “…Susie…Susana, I’m sorry…I’m really sorry…’m so sorry…but we’re not good for each other…this has to stop…” He doesn’t need to say anymore, because she finally gets it. He’s breaking up with her.

Quick as a flash, he feels the sting. His head jerks and it feels familiar. Her words bring an ancient memory to light. “…look what you made me do…” He takes a breath and he couldn’t go back to the party now, even if he wanted to. He wants to kill her brother twice dead.

He tilts his back to look down at her. As angry as he is, both with himself, about the hand life dealt him, and Susana Mack, he’s more patient than he ever was. He says it softly and she must see something in him, which she didn’t before, by the pain in her expression. “…You deserved so much better…” She spits it at him, venomously. “I hope you choke and die, Butch Deloria!” She turns to leave, but he takes her wrist.

She jerks and twists. He doesn’t let go. He curses at her, boiling over a little. “Damn it, Sus’- don’t walk away! Come back here!” She turns her head and turns on him. She raises her hand to slap him again, but he shuts his eyes and waits.

She’s very different from the woman he married. Her palm lands and she sobs. He grunts and snatches her wrist up. He huffs at her, tired of getting slapped. “-you finished yet?!” She’s very different from his wife, her voice small… disjointed. “…Let me go…just let me go …”

He’s firm in his grip, being as careful as he can about her injuries. She’s not looking at him, but he can’t just let her leave this way. Not until he makes things right. He’s honest with her, because he was never honest with her. “…You don’t even love me.” He eyes meet his and he…he’s rattled by what he sees in them.

Her words shake him. “I might have! …” She sobs, lips trembling and he really…can’t say if she’s lying to him, when she says. “…I still could…” He lets her wrists fall out of his grip and she hugs herself. He can’t leave her and he can’t let her go. Not when it’s like this.

This feels worse in a way. Maybe he just hates that he’s breaking her heart? She never deserved that. Who really deserved what she had gotten? He feels old and when he looks at her…he’s conflicted.

There’s pity, but there’s this love he has for her, like he’s coddling a child. She filled his days with complements and she was always polite to him. She rarely pulled on him and would go out of her way, to avoid hard topics with him. In the end he had one thing, which he’d never asked. Only one.

He can’t bear to look at her, feeling himself sigh shakily. Emotions well up in him that he can’t help. He shared his childhood with her too and she’d been nothing, but good to him. As good as she could be. He puts his hands a top her shoulders and makes up his mind.

He’s not going to lie anymore. He’s going to ask the one question, which he should have a long time ago. He hears the tears in his voice and her face is so vulnerable, he can’t even talk right. “…Susie…” He swallows and thumbs circles into her shoulders, comfortingly. He sighs and laughs, but it’s sad and he feels low. “…Awe, Sus’…”

Then he speaks aloud, what he never did, remembering how he did her wrong. “…Where’d you get those bruises, Susie-Q…?” Immediately, she’s horrified. He expected that and yet, he couldn’t have at all. She takes a step back and her words are programed into her like a Protectron. “-I only tripped!” He follows, shaking his head, voice gentle. “…those bruises…who gave you those bruises, Susie?”

Not many people knew her like he did. She cried a lot, but he knew when it was real. She knew him too. She knew his favorite meal, his favorite color, and his middle name. He knew that she liked getting out of the house.

She shakes her head and lies, right in his face. “-Nobody. I tripped looking for you! I-“He pushes and he won’t’ stop, until she breaks. If he stops before then, then he’ll never make this right. Her back’s against the wall and before she can lie again, he does something he’d have **never** done at 17. He speaks his heart, his hands on her shoulders, hers still wrapped around her own body. “-I should have killed him… when I first saw ‘em…”

She takes in a breath, loud, like a shriek. A sob that’s different. Agony embodied in the noise. He sees her eyes well up and her voice is so quiet, he leans closer just to hear them. “…Shut your damn mouth…not one more word…” He doesn’t.

He just says it again, heart open, as he leans in and places his forehead to hers. Giving her the only comfort her can, with the truth he never fessed up to. “…Stevie did this… he did this…I should have fuckin’ done something about it…the second I saw ‘em…” She places her palms on his chest and she’s so angry, he can already tell. Her voice watery and her words spiteful. “-Stop it! …stop it…” He sighs and kisses her forehead.

Her pulls her close and hold her. He places his chin on her head and laughs, because she’s taller than his wife. She’s not his wife. She’s one of his best friends though…and it’s about time he was a better one. If he could call her his sister, he just might…but he can’t.

She’ll never be his sister, that’s for sure.

He says it against her temple, her hands trapped against his chest. “…You don’t really love me…” he pets her hair down, feeling her breath shudder against his shoulder, as he speaks again. “…but that’s ok…I’m not going anywhere…and I love you…just not the way you’d think…” He feels her hands fist into his shirt, catches another sob. “…damn it, Butch…” He knows what she needs and he’s good enough now to give it to her. The words have her shaking. “…You just want out…that’s all you’ve ever wanted…I act dumb, but…I’m _really_ damn dumb…”

She shakes harder, when he gives her what she always wanted. His words careful and sincere. “...I’m your out though…I’m not letting you go back there… I’m doing what I should have…” She begins to cry harder and when he hugs her tighter, his words lingering. When he finally does the right thing, it feels…bitter sweet. He gives her the escape that she needed…but never asked him for. “…we’ve got room at the house… and a pullout bed with your name on it…”

She wails at that and he feels her arms circle around his back. He laughs, finally feeling the tears spread to him too. “…it’s just not my bed.” She cries and he catches one string of words, which he can understand. “-you don’t mean it! You don’t mean it…” He rubs her back and rests his chin atop her shoulder. He rocks her like baby, his plan already decided, when he lets her in on his longtime desire. “…Yeah, I do. …first, we’re gonna get you fixed up at the clinic…then I’m bringing you home with me and that’s where you’re gonna stay…”

He never felt her hold onto him so tightly before. She’s loud and he’s sure if the music’s off in the diner, they might be able to hear them. He catches a few more intelligible things, amidst her broken sentences. “…He’ll kill you…He’ll kill you too…” Without fear, with cold challenge, he says it without humor. “-He can try. He’ll be picking his fuckin’ teeth off the floor… he’s not gonna touch you again…” Her fingers clutch tighter at his suit jacket and he’s sure, that she’s never been this open with him.

She shakes her head and swears a little. “Who the fuck _are_ you?” He just rocks her gently, smiling through old wounds. He says it again, clear. “…I’m your way out of there… and you’re a friend I should have stuck up for…a long time ago…” He’d make up the couch-bed and his Ma’ would appreciate the company. He’s fairly sure she would.

He knew where he’d be going when he had the time…

…at the bottom of a bottle of the only good Scotch in 101.

She should have known.

Of course he lied.

It was all a game.

A birthday-card gets tossed into the trash, as a pair of heels clack away down the hall.

A blonde, feels dumb.

He saw the way he was holding her. Susie and Butch were going out. Everybody knew that. She knew that. She knew better.

…she wouldn’t fall for his snake oil charm again.

**((TBC))**


	9. Tiny Pieces In An Infinite Game

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> !!!BEFORE READING THIS CHAPTER!!!: I highly recommend you reading the separate story Displaced. It's very heart-wrenching, but I believe it adds a lot more depth to Susie's frame of mind, than just this chapter alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heyo! Haven't updated in awhile. I hope you guys enjoy!

Why should she be angry at all, if she should have known better?

Denial was her best friend at times. She worked hard at her job and it kept her from worrying about her social life. She kept her thoughts on medical journals and let the logical side of her mind consume her readily. She enjoyed a good jigsaw puzzle at her father’s desk on a slow day and helping him check vitals on a slightly less slow shift. She kept herself together, by focusing on other things when her day grew tough.

She couldn’t believe that she’d actually let herself slip up. The flutter in her chest stung her like a spider bite. Her swollen feet and her over the top heels bit at her pride. She was honestly more pissed at herself than Deloria. Of course, he was lying to her and she was the one in the wrong, for believing him.

As much as she was clever and sharp with her words toward him, she’d softened her heart at him for the first time. She’d hoped in his sudden promises of “I’m sorry” and had always quietly wanted change between them. She thought for just a moment, one blind moment, that it might be nice to let him close. It might be nice to be “noticed” by a kinder, gentler version of the Deloria, which she’d learned to keep at arm’s length.

She was so angry, that she didn’t think twice about trashing his cruel joke of a card. It was clearly a trick and she wasn’t giving into it. Not now and not ever. How could she even let herself sink so low? Of course he’d never intended to…what had he been trying to pull?

He never really **got** to her and most of what he did, was just childish. He was always full of shit, but he’d never really been _good_ at it. They’d always been on the same ground and she’d never once been intimidated by him. They were equal in how they poked and annoyed one another, with unspoken boundaries that they tried to never cross. What Butch had made her feel for him just in the span of today and yesterday, was just on the line of cruel and unusual.

She’s got blisters on her ankles and the diner’s closing in on her fast. She wants to see Amata so bad, that it’s painful. She needs to… Amata’s the only female friend she’s got. Her jealousy was so out of place and foreign to her, that she felt sick to her stomach. She played the cool headed doctor’s assistant most of her life, but at her core, she was tragically softhearted.

She was the type to hide the romance novels she’d borrow from the library, under her mattress. The kind of person who opened up fully, only to herself really. Even Amata didn’t know _everything_ about her and they’d been playing together since diapers. She was blushing hot with rage, ashamed of herself like never before. She was full of questions and confusion towards herself.

Why did she fall so willing for his act and so fast?

Maybe denial wasn’t really her friend after all. She’d hated Deloria’s type ever since he began to grow into his **type**. He was reckless and loud, taking every chance he got to backtalk the security team. He’d get drunk after dark and break bottles in the halls, which poor Stanly would have to sweep up. Everywhere he went, people could always tell where he’d been and he constantly made a mess.

Him and his Snakes, strong arming everyone who looked at them wrong. He was always pushing other people around, with his damn dirty _gang;_ even more lately than ever _._ So maybe that’s all this was? Just some terrible bet or a game between him and his little group of assholes, that she hadn’t been in on. She wants to cry, because she can’t fully understand her own reaction, either.

She’s so shaken up, that she’s been trailing her fingers along the cold steel walls, for half of her return to the diner. She’s touching it for balance, thinking herself into circles. It wasn’t seeing him on such good **terms** with Susie, no…that wasn’t it. It was seeing her own hidden agenda in her darkest heart…the shocking feelings she’d buried deep. She read too many romance novels and a piece of her had been flattered at him.

 A dangerous, stupid, and childish crumb of herself, liked what she’d been offered.

She’d _liked_ dancing with him and being normal for once. She’d truly enjoyed the idea of making peace with the bullheaded greaser, a little _too_ much. It wasn’t just a **truce** that he’d been offering and what’s worse, is that she’d been far too willing to accept whatever it really _was_. She should have stuck to her guns from the night before. She should have kept him in his place and been smart enough not to think he was serious.

Deloria was pulling a head game with her, that she wasn’t going to play.

Too bad she’d already been played by him. Anger is so blinding white-hot inside her, that tears are trying to well up. Her feet ache, her dress feels too tight and what for? Who the hell was really looking? Certainly not… she takes a sharp breath, terrified of herself.

She’d never wanted to impress anyone like this before. She was happy just keeping busy with work or being with Amata or Freddie. She’d learned that if you let people walk all over you, you’d never be able to respect yourself. Standing up to Butch was no way to impress him. Neither was barely being able to hold her tongue at the Overseer.

She didn’t think she cared about what Butch did outside of their constant bickering. He never really struck deep wounds into her anyway and she rarely went out of her way to start things with him. She didn’t think she cared about him much _at all_ or at the most, she‘d never want him dead _._ She didn’t truly hate him and they weren’t friends, but she liked to think she could spot his pattern. He’d never acted like this before toward her though- never treated her like she was some kind of… like she wasn’t a target.

She’d wanted to hate him growing up. She wanted to hate him now more than ever or find him utterly obnoxious. She actually found comfort, in the fact that she honestly **did** find him to be utterly obnoxious. He’d whistle at all the girls teasingly and start fist fights with his “friends”, which she would have to clean up after. It should have been hard to forgive him, because of how he acted towards everyone.

He’d never treated her like … like she was worth talking to without pretense.

She’s searching for Amata, the very second that she’s looking in through the diner’s doorway. She’s not hard to find either. After stomping down the hall, forcing herself not to cry, Amata is the first face her eyes begin to look for. Who she sees her with, leaves her veins suddenly flowing icily. Another Snake, just waiting to strike.

She didn’t want to see another Tunnel Snake. Not for as long as she lived. She knew she was being a little childish, but she didn’t care. She wanted to be selfish. She wanted to forget that she’d ever entertained the thought of Deloria being _sweet._

It’s so unlike Amata to be that way toward a Tunnel Snake too, of all people. She just can’t believe it at first, seeing what she comes back to. Here she was, nagging her about Butch stealing her away from her and being a hypocrite in the same hour. Amata was dancing with the enemy, just as she turned her back. She does notice the way Amata is smiling though, even past her anger.

She’s at a loss, when the look on her friend’s face, seems to put a pin into her fragile ego.

She’s taking a deep and livid breath, prepared to drag her away from Paul in a heartbeat. She’s geared up and ready to go. She stops short however, because Paul’s smiling too. He’s smiling softly and she knows Paul well enough, to know he’s not the type to fake a smile. Paul’s actually fairly funny and well behaved on his own…without Deloria’s influence.

She feels the angry tears try to come again and grits her teeth.

She doesn’t want to cry about _this_. She doesn’t want to see Amata smiling with someone else so easily. She wants Amata to pick up her wounded pieces and to be selfish. She really wants to be a child today. She refuses to cry about this though, Tunnel Snakes and their stupid games.

She’d rather eat rotten radroach guts. The diner’s mostly emptied at this point, so she could walk right in and drag her best friend out. She could pull Amata to safety and tell her, just how right she’d been about Butch. She could warn her not to trust Paul either- that the Snakes were up to something! Amata would get angry on her behalf too.

They’d go back to her house and Amata would hold her in the Livingroom. She’d rub her back and she could cry openly, because Amata would be the one to get her to drop her guard. She rarely cried in public. Though when she was alone, she cried about many things…her mother for one or sometimes for Freddie. She’s about to grab Amata and bolt, but then she can’t.

Paul comes back wearing that shy, kind smile, which he hides in the faces of his friends.

She stands there like a statue, unable to move. Paul’s got a huge order of French fries, fresh and steaming. The expression Amata’s making is… uncomfortable, but tragically hopeful. Angie’s not sure why, but she feels like she’s suddenly seeing something, she shouldn’t be. She ducks behind the doorframe.

She feels like an intruder at her own birthday party…but then again, it wasn’t just _her_ party. She runs a hand through her hair, collecting herself. She’s going to go in. She’s just preparing herself, she tries to reason. Wincing as her legs shake under her, her thoughts stuck on how Butch had held Susie so… _affectionately_.

She’d had her face buried into his neck and he looked so… _serious_. They looked like _l **overs** _ and it bothered her more than it would have yesterday. She didn’t like that it bothered her, not at all. She didn’t want to think about why it did. Butch wasn’t anything worth thinking about.

She’s grateful for the sting in her feet and it worries her a little. It feels easier to focus on something else and the pain in her feet, is better than the sting in her head. She peaks her eyes around the corner and sees the unthinkable. She knows that Amata rarely eats in front of people, let alone when her father might catch her.

Even with her. Even when it’s just the two of them. Amata’s been eating less and less lately. Her ribs have begun to show. The other girls used to whisper cattily in the locker room. _“She’s such a fat ass.”_

_“So unsightly.”_

_“Too much to look at if you ask me.”_

_“Who’d want all that…that blubber?”_

What had started out as teenage girl’s and their petty jealousy, when they were younger, had begun to reach the Overseer’s ears.

Women were cruel…but when the Tunnel Snakes began to join the gossip, that’s when things began to turn sour.

 _“Amata’s not fat! She’s just five feet too short!”_ She pounds her fist sharply against the wall, without thinking clearly. She makes herself jump a little, not even meaning to lash out. She’s frustrated just thinking about him now. Beyond frustrated. It hadn’t just been his fault, but he’d only made Amata’s life worse over it; he’d been the final straw.

That’s when the Overseer began to step in. Always with the questions about her nutrition. Forcing her into a diet, which hadn’t taken much force at all. Amata pretended not to hear the vault talk, but that didn’t mean that she hadn’t been listening. It’s very…very difficult to get her to break her starvation habit.

 _“You’re trying to fatten me up, aren’t you?”_ She’ll always laugh about it, whenever she worries too much. While her stomach is quite genuinely growling, she’ll pretend not to hear it. Angie knows she’s been starving herself, because her _father_ has been watching her diet more lately. That’s not all of it though. Now, as twisted as it is, the gossip hasn’t gotten any nicer, despite Amata’s struggles.

Now it was either. _“Oh that’s unsightly! She’s skin and bones.”_ Or even worse… the talk was sometimes, _“I’m a little envious! She lost the weight so quickly!”_ All for the sake of keeping herself _desirable_ for her eventual husband _._ Another reason to hate Deloria… he’s a part of the reason why the Overseer, finally took the rumors to heart.

It was one thing for women to be jealous, but if the men thought the same thing? It was an awful fact that they’d have to marry one day. Whether by choice or at the polls. If there weren’t enough men, then the women would be shared and the medical history books were filled with those kinds of stories. If a woman wasn’t married even after the polls were taken, she was breeding stock.

In a sick way, it was almost as if the Overseer, truly did think that he was looking out for his daughter’s health. It’d have been more humane to simply do away with the whole process. There had to be something kinder than forced pairings and married by law. But the Overseer wouldn’t even spare his own daughter it seemed…let alone the rest of 101. Sometimes, it was enviable to be a part of the vault’s growing population, of dwellers who didn’t have to participate- who were actually discouraged from having children.

The Unclean were lucky in that… the one blessing Evangeline thought the Lower Levelers were given.

To see Paul pulling her best friend over to the bar and _sharing_ his fries with her? To watch Amata actually feeling comfortable enough to take a few bites? It feels like another betrayal, which she actually feels guilty for experiencing. She feels robbed of something. It’s like the tables have turned and Amata’s the one getting taken from _her_.

If Amata’s eating though? Paul’s doing her a lot more good than harm right then. It doesn’t feel good to admit, but it’s true. It’s not fair either, but Angie’s not going to break them apart. Evangeline’s tempted to slide down the wall, rip off her heels, and just… sit there motionless for an hour or two.

She puts herself on autopilot, when she makes up her mind to go back home. She’s very good at that. When the Overseer stops by the clinic without notice or The Tunnel Snakes corner her alone, she’s good at shutting herself off. She calms her thoughts and doesn’t ever let them win an argument. She keeps herself separated from her feelings and toughs it out.

She won’t let Butch win today.

This was supposed to be a good day. She wasn’t looking forward to the presents or the cake or really any of that. What she’d been looking forward to, was being with her friends. Having a relaxed day off with her father, because lately all it felt like was paperwork.

It was paperwork and having to watch her father leave before her almost every night. She didn’t ask for Butch to crash her party. She didn’t ask for his advances. She didn’t want to be the vault’s next doctor today. She just wanted to be… carefree for once in a long while.

She’s tearing off her heels and gathering her thoughts. She shuts her eyes for a moment and pushes down her anger. She finds her way home barefoot. It takes her a minute or two to get up and leave Amata behind. She didn’t want to face the crowded diner again anyway.

Carrying her mother’s heels in her hand, she discovers her dad’s not home yet. She’s all alone when their front door slides shut. She’s shuffling over to her bedroom, dropping her heels on their coffee table. She’s tired. Deloria took a lot out of her.

The day itself did really. She was tired from the night before and she’d been working all day before that. She was late for her own party and in the back of her mind, she’s been worrying about Freddie. He didn’t seem like himself today. Sometimes he didn’t and those days, she was afraid for him.

He was almost like her patient first and her friend last. Being his friend, only made her worry about him more. Sometimes she worried so much, it would keep her awake at night. She had trouble sleeping to the point of insomnia. She was so tired today, but it wasn’t just from lack of sleep.

She was tired of letting Butch rule her life. She always swore that she didn’t notice him, but he was ALWAYS in her line of sight. The vault was small enough to drive people bonkers. Her bathroom door lies open and for a moment, she just stares at it.

Her bedroom door shuts behind her and her thoughts race. Then they go blank and her chest feels numb. It feels numb and then slowly, it feels like its being crushed. Her bottom lip trembles and her stony expression begins to crack. She locks her bedroom door and feels so angry, so sharply.

She’s breathing heavily as she slips out of her dress. It’s not graceful either. She’s twisting around and tugging at the zipper. She’s not sure where the tears are coming from, as strange as it sounds. She felt fine walking home and she’d almost felt better about everything that had happened.

How did this happen? How could a guy like him, lie so easily? Who would be that coldblooded? She’s got both her arms struggling behind her to reach the zipper, suddenly feeling frantic. She’s so pissed that she just wants to tear out of her clothes and break things.

She wants to shoot things. She wants to shoot him! She wants to ignore him and never see his dumb face again! She wants Amata to come looking for her. She wants her dad.

A loud rip stops her in her wild struggling. Everything seems to freeze and her anger is dropped out of her like a broken ceiling fan. She gasps quietly, jerking her head towards her bathroom door. She’s bolting for the mirror. She can’t believe it- there’s just no way.

She finds a hand mirror under the sink without having to look too hard. The tears have dried up momentarily. She’s in shock and the anger leaving her, has left her hollow. She turns around and angles the hand mirror to look at where she’d been tearing at the zipper. Her breath comes out shakily, her eyes wide like saucers.

She ripped her mother’s dress.

In her careless, blind tantrum, she tore it at the left side of the zipper. A sound akin to a short desperate whine, echoes breathlessly against the bathroom tile. She shakes her head, unable to keep from saying something out loud. “…No.” She takes in a breath, using her free hand to reach behind her and touch at the torn fabric. She speaks in utter disbelief. “You’ve got to be kidding me…no…”

It’s such…it’s just so wrong. Her voice booms out of her, off kilter and hopeless. “GODDAMN IT!” Her tears come back in a vengeance. She’s so angry, that she ends up lobbing her hand mirror into her shower wall. The glass shatters and the tile cracks.

She sobs in surprise. When she turns around and faces herself in the mirror, she can’t stand what she sees. The mascara’s running down her face. Her hair’s messed up from when she ran her hands through it. Her lipstick’s smeared a little from eating.

Of course Christine’s catty words come back to her at the sight of herself. _“Oh look it’s a train wreck girls.”_ There’s no one around but her to see herself though. So that’s a blessing. She hates what she’s looking out. She never wore make up really.

She never tried to dress for other people. She never really tried to _get dolled up_ before. Seeing herself now, she thought she was a walking cliché. She’s crying so hard her shoulders are quaking. She looked like a broken little girl, instead of the grown up woman she was supposed to be today.

She’d rather be angry, but annoyingly, that’s not what this feeling was. This was how she really felt about what had happened today. She felt like crying and she didn’t care if she ruined her make up. She’d never cared much for make up anyway. It was her mother’s dress, which she really cared about ruining the most.

She wanted to blame Deloria for it, but he wasn’t the one who wrecked it. He wasn’t the one who’d been serious. He hadn’t changed at all and she should have been better than this. She’s half aware, that she’s suffering from exhaustion and not entirely all together. She felt like a damn crybaby.

She felt like she’d been blinded by something terrible.

She just couldn’t pretend that Butch hadn’t reached her. She’d been excited to see him today, under the annoyance. She’d never really been treated like she was… a _woman_ before _._ It was nice and it wasn’t awful, when they bantered almost causally last night. She didn’t even realize how excited she’d been, till she rounded the corner, and saw him with Susie again.

It was like she woke up and had to face something she didn’t want to see in herself. She’s stuck in her dress and she’s got no idea how to fix it. She’s sinking to the floor, just sobbing. She’s ugly and it’s her own fault. She doesn’t want to think about her mom.

She doesn’t want to think about her father or Butch. She just wants to focus on anything else. She cries against the sink cabinets, feeling utterly worn away. Till she finally runs out of tears. Her thoughts run blank again and somehow, she gets the strength to stand up.

She sniffles, glaring at her reflection. She thinks to herself. _‘Today really sucks… but at least you’re smarter now, because of it.’_ She’s turning on the faucet and feeling sheepish about breaking the mirror. She’s never done anything so reckless before. She’s not even sure why she was so angry.

She’s washing her face, scrubbing off Amata’s makeup. She reaches blindly for a hand towel, drying her eyes. She sees herself, eyes puffy and face weary. She should have slept in today. She really did need it and her father had known that.

She steels herself and feels a little better. She wonders, if she somehow managed to get her heartbroken, without even noticing? Glaring into the sink, she’s thinking about Butch’s sudden interest in her and feeling irritated again. _‘…big jerk…big… lying… snake oil barfing, asshole…’_  He had something foul planned for her. After today, she’s not in the mood to ever speak to him again.

The vault is small though and there’s no way she can avoid him for long. Not with the way things are. She hates it, but she knows there’s only one way out of her mother’s dress. She doesn’t want to do it, because even though the zipper’s totaled, it was still an accident. She turns her eyes up to the ceiling, trying not to think about it.

She’s gritting her teeth, as she opens the first aid box beside the bathroom mirror. She finds some scissors and offering a very guilty apology to her mother, she snips the fabric up toward her neckline. Without a fight, her dress falls limply around her ankles. With a very sorry look on her face, she resigns to avoid Deloria for at least a week. She never thought she’d ever have feelings like this for him.

What’s worse, is that they feel like they’ve been there a lot longer, than they should. Sometimes, it felt like she thought so hard and so much about everything, that it took away from her. She’d constantly have the medical filing system running around in her mind, worrying over the best way to sort them. She worried about her clinical duties a lot. She worried that one day, the whole vault would lose faith in her, when it came time for her to be her father’s daughter.

She never worried about boys. She never worried about Deloria. Not in the way that most girls did. She didn’t feel like worrying anymore about anything today. So instead, she’d crawl into bed and get the sleep she knew she’d been losing.

Then she’d wake up and ask her father, if she could volunteer for a week in the lower levels.

Nobody from this level really went down there and it would give her valuable work experience.

The Unclean were a part of the vault and were worth looking after, even if the Overseer thought otherwise.

She’d be able to do a lot more good down there, than up here.

Best of all, she wouldn’t have to see Deloria, until she could remember how to be herself around him again.

 

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Of all the shit that could have happened, running into Susana, had to have been the worst. Mentally and emotionally draining. He’s walking with her hand in his, his father’s old suit jacket tossed around her frame, checking wildly around corners. He’s ducking security and feeling his brain swell with stress. He didn’t want to be doing this today.

He’d wanted to dance with his wife and play the young carefree kid. He wanted a damn moment of peace. A moment of peace was apparently too much for him to ask for. Susie’s been grilling him the whole way, sniffling and shaking like a dry branch in a breeze. “Why are you going out of your way like this? I just…I don’t understand, Butch. You were never this interested in my private life before…” He’s got a short fuse, as he’s ushering her towards the clinic, the cold steel of the vault walls mocking him.

He’s snapping at her both out of guilt and out of misplaced anger, his boots heavy on the metal floor. “Because I don’t know what else to do with you and I sure as hell, don’t plan on sending you back to that… -you don’t have to understand why. Just try to trust me a little, huh?” He felt like he was on borrowed time. He couldn’t just abandon her there and run off back to the party. He was better than that and Susie deserved better. He’s got this molerat chewing at the back of his head though.

How the hell was he going to explain this to Evangeline?

Susie was good to him for a very long time. So even if he was pissed and at a loss, he was going to take care of her. He wouldn’t repeat his mistakes and he’d ask his wife for help, after Susie was settled. With every hurried step they take towards the clinic however, he’s getting more and more prickled. He forgot how small the vault really was.

Grey steel, poorly wired lighting in some spots and tight corners. He didn’t expect it to bother him this much, but with Evangeline in his view, it hadn’t. She kept his mind off of everything; anything that he had to feel angry or helpless about, she’d always distracted him from it. Susie’s a wreck and he feels so frustrated already, that her complaining isn’t something he can just tune out all the way. “-Trust you? Are you serious? Who the…I have NEVER asked you to be my KEEPER or anything like that …have you lost your mind?” He’s losing his patience, when security’s suddenly about to walk right into them.

He’s glancing at Susie’s obvious injuries and already knowing how it’ll go, if they meet with the Officers. He’s dragging her into a conveniently placed corridor. The lights are out down this hall, almost like maintenance hasn’t looked at the lights in ages. He hears her gasp at the way he handles her and she starts to complain at him. “Ah, ouch! D-don’t be so rough with me-“He’s leaning over her, putting a finger to his mouth, to hush her up.

His brain’s working on a couple of different things. He’s trying to remember what his relationship with security was back then. Was he doing enough dirty work to get something like this overlooked? It makes his skin crawl a little. It’d be better to just let them pass, no questions asked.

His mind’s back on James and sorting through old feelings, which he doesn’t want to dig at. Susie hurt him once. He wasn’t exactly Mr. Perfect, but the sting of being used by her, is somehow still with him after all this time. After all these years, you just don’t forget your first girlfriend. Susie’s obediently quiet, as the guards get within hearing range, talking to themselves. “I don’t know… Mack’s been itching for a raid down below lately.”

Susie’s looking at him all wide eyed and annoyed. Once the initial shock of running into him had worn off, the chick was nothing but irritated and confused with him. He’s trying to hide them both, but his ears on picking up the guard’s gossip, a young male voice following after the first. “Ol’ Allen’s been getting kind of rough lately… you think The Overseer’s behind his uh… excitement?” Their footsteps echo closer and Butch catches something in the gruff old man’s talk, which adds to his growing concerns. “Overseer’s been cracking down on Lower Levelers… everyone really…”

Butch searches Susie’s face, while trying to hear the men passing them by, the fear in the junior guard’s voice, leaving him on edge.  “…feels like the barracks is going to burst from the tension.” One guard sounds a little more jaded and that’s how he can tell them apart. Butch gives a silent signal for Susie to keep quiet, looking over his shoulder. The older man speaks up again and Butch’s stomach flutters with revelation. “Almost like he’s afraid of a rebellion down there… with the way things are going, I wouldn’t bet against it. I’m not going to put my name up for it, if things get bad down there though.” Their footsteps finally echo away and Butch gets flashes of a time he barely remembers.

_“There’s fire down below burning up the wires in the door mainframes! The reactor’s not going to make it if things keep going like this!” A hysterical woman sobs in the classroom. Its chaos. The roaches came so fast, that there wasn’t anything they could do to stop them. Paul’s dead and there’s blood everywhere. The tree on the hill in the Atrium is on fire- it’s burning and the radroaches… they ate through the ventilation._

_They had to seal the atrium door…there were good people still inside of it._

_There wasn’t any air in some parts of the vault and the lower levels? The people were trapped down there like rats. The Overseer went mad. He caused a collapse and they’re in the walls trying to breathe…the Unclean are screaming up through the floors. The vault was opened, there’s more to life than this rat maze- where everything’s a lie and there’s not enough air- there’s a way out!_

_They have to get out, he’s got to get out, he can’t take it anymore, he’s got nothing left, he’s burning, he’s choking, he’s-_

“-Butchie…are we…are we really _over_?” He gets brought back to reality, by Susie Mack’s uncomfortably vulnerable face.

As soon as the memories come back, they leave again to be remember at another time. His heart’s pounding and he’s not sure what to say. He feels her fingers brush his jaw, but his focus, is on the way she’s looking at him. Lost and desperate, she looks just like she sounds. “…didn’t we have fun?” He feels a sting that makes him scowl at her. “I wouldn’t call it that.”

He’d call it a mistake or a painful lie they’d lived together. He’d call it a lot of things. What they had was a lot of things, but even through the _happy_ moments, he wouldn’t call it fun anymore. He feels her hands smoothing over his chest and her eyes lock onto her fingers, with haunted focus. She shrugs, wincing in pain, her voice small, yet… barbed. “…I’d call it fun.”

He snorts like he has a bad taste in his mouth, circling her wrists in his hands firmly. He pulls them down and off him slowly, letting his grilse show harshly. “Yeah, well Ol’ Butch-man’s calling bullshit… that’s a load of bullshit, Susie.” Then with eyes like a viper, she’s tearing at him with her words. “-Where the hell is this coming from? Is there some other girl? –because I already told you, don’t care if there is!” He can’t believe what’s coming out of his mouth next. There’s a pain in his chest that he forgot he had, when he raises his voice a little too loud. “-Getting used by you hurts ya know? You ever think it might have bothered me that you never asked for more?”

He’s still holding her wrists. For some reason it’s hard to let go. Susie recoils a little and with a sugar sweet voice, tries to placate him. “…I’m real sorry, Butchie…” Then her eyes narrow and she rarely ever showed him her backbone. Part of the reason why he respected her, was because of it though.

He wonders if things might have turned out different if she showed it to him more. She’s got a lot of spine in her, truth finally coming out in her clipped tone. “-Don’t pretend like you don’t use me too. I’m fun and that’s what we have…it’s why this works…you don’t ask questions and we…” Then she sighs like she’s going to start crying again and it grates on him. He feels her fingers mirroring his, weak around his wrists. He’s not sure if she’s faking it, but… maybe that’s because she’s not sure either, when she says, “…it’s all I _need_ from you, Butchie…”

He’s got a shaking voice and a head full of secrets, trying to pick him apart. “You could have asked me for anything… you know, maybe I never acted like it before, but I…If you asked me, I might have… if you told me…out right…” he feels his heart melting and his guilt needling in his guts. He’s watching surprise or outrage flicker into her expression. It’s like she’d never thought about it before. That hurts, but oddly… it’s almost a relief too.

She’d never thought of really getting serious with him, because it wasn’t what she really wanted. He didn’t either and that was ok. It was funny, but he’d gotten so old and good at poker, he could read some people better, than they could read themselves. He’s shaking his head and feeling silly for even feeling like he is. He never knew he still cared about this.

He takes a breath and his voice steadies, reflecting his sound resolve. “…You may not think you _need_ more out of me, because of…of how **screwed** **up** things have been on your end…but…” he laughs sadly, because somehow he’s speaking from experience and watching her accept it. “…but you **do**. You need a partner to get you through this kind of shit… you deserve more, Susie-Q…” She’s looking at him like he’s nuts. There’s this understanding in her expression, that wasn’t there before though. She takes a breath and sighs, showing him a piece of herself she probably never did.

He squeezes her wrists in his hands, with reassurance. He feels raw and a little shocked at himself. He’d never gotten to say this to her before. His ears strain to listen for footsteps, as he lets his feelings fall out of him a little gracelessly. “-And I need more than what you can give me. ‘N NO I’m **not** asking you for it! I just can’t do this anymore- I can’t be with you…” He grits his teeth while talking to her like…well like he’s an adult and she’s a kid.

To him though…that’s exactly how it feels. The words he’s using are all even and measured and it’s a little unnerving to him. You never know how grown you are, till you have to comfort somebody who hasn’t lived even twice as long as you have. He watches her eyes narrow, rage now lurking inside of her head, when he puts his foot down. “…but I **can** give you a home and I **CAN** be your guardian!”

She looks flabbergasted for a moment and who wouldn’t with how he must be acting? She’s tearing her wrists out of his hands and looking at him like he has a death wish. He always knew that she’d act softer with him when she wanted something, but boy when her gloves came off? Her voice goes darker and her words aren’t so sweet. “You can’t even meet me for lunch on time!” She scoffs and glares at him like he’s gum on her shoe, the change almost catching him off guard. “You’ve never be able to commit to anything larger than a _“You should come by tonight.”_ with me!”

He gets where she’s coming from and he scowls at himself. Both at himself and the time they’re wasting, standing here bickering. They’re just standing here, waiting for security to creep up on them. Or worse…he’ll have to face Stevie with her standing right beside him all beat and broken. He’s half sure when that happens, Stevie’s not going to make it out of the rumble alive, whether she’s standing there or not.

He’s looking away from her, having a hard time facing who he used to be. He was a coward… but it’s nauseating hearing it from her. He failed her and when her voice cracks, it feels awfully vulnerable to him. “-It’s not because I didn’t **want** to commit to you…it’s not like I haven’t wanted to ask you for favors, Butch! I mean really **don’t** , but I just know you!” He’s running a hand through his hair, feeling twitchy when he hears footsteps coming and going off in the distance. He’s thinking back to James and the world crumbling down around his shoulders.

He’s curt with her, rolling his eyes a little, but woefully distracted by how broken her face looks. “-This is a fuckin’ scene right here…a scene that we’re throwing, that **someone’s** gonna see. We can argue later, after we get you looked at!” Those bruises hurt him to look at and they’re not subtle. He’s got a wash of rage, concern, and then panic whenever footsteps start to walk by them. People are leaving the diner and if they don’t move, they won’t make it to the clinic. He goes to grab her wrist to lead her again, by she jerks it away, damn near shrieking at him. “-No! -like hell we’re moving right now! I know you, Butch! You can’t…you can’t **keep** these kinds of promises! You’re going to… he’ll…”

He’s sighing jaggedly, at the end of his rope and ready to drag her down the hall, kicking and screaming. Her words strike a bunch of nerves in him, because she doesn’t have a clue… what he’s really like anymore. “-you can’t fight him, you couldn’t even touch him- he’s security, Butch!” He keeps his mouth shut, fighting an impulse to laugh outright, as his eyes start raking over her hair. He’s got the strange urge to brush it back or fix parts that are sticking up oddly… it’s an embarrassing instinct, but working with hair, eases his mind. She’s got a hand to her forehead, clearly letting her thoughts run wild. “You can’t even take Wally in a fight and it would just…I never wanted to bring my family into this- into us!”

He’s checking over his shoulder every now and again, knowing how this’ll look to onlookers. No one’s walking by and it’s a good thing too, because Susie’s voice is getting a little bolder and lot louder, with every word. She’s looking at him with a lot less vulnerability and a lot more hysteria. “I don’t want you butting your head into my life and…and this isn’t going to work! This is too much! Forget I ran into you! Just…just leave me alone, alright?” He’s snatching her wrist and ducking out of the dark corridor before she can stop him. His jaw’s tight and he feels tired of catering to her fear.

He’s not sure living twice as long, is really entirely a blessing anymore.

He feels her feet try to lock up, but then…she follows after him without a pause. Her voice is shaken and small, but she’s not tugging her wrist out of his grip. “What are you doing?” He barks at her, pissed that she’s being so difficult. “-Helping you! Because you sure as hell aren’t going to help yourself!” The rest of the way to the clinic isn’t far. She might still be talking…but at least she’s still walking too. “…Where are we going?”

He stops at a corner, watching a group of young men and women walk by them, oblivious. He’s sweating and tired of arguing, but he still finds it in his heart to speak quietly. “I told you. The clinic and then back to my place.” He goes to walk again, but then…she stops him. No longer with fear or bite or much of anything…her voice hits him softly. “No, Butch…” He looks over his shoulder and the uncertainty on her face… he can’t hold onto all of his impatient anger at the sight.

She gives him such an imploring look, like she really wants him to have the right answer. “…what are we _doing_?” They share a moment that’s as sad, as it is hopeful. She wants his help, no matter how much she’s pushing him away. If he can’t push back against _her_ , then how much better has he really gotten? He growls, sighing roughly and lacing his fingers with hers, telling her the truth. “Whatever it is you want to do, we can do it later. Not now while you’ve got all those…”

The word _bruises_ feels too wrong to say out loud. They both hear what he’s saying though. She’s turning her eyes to the floor and he’s having a hard time being indifferent. He wants to kill her brother, but then he just wants to find Evangeline, forget it all. He feels her hand grasp his and they’re walking, while he finishes talking. “…just stop fighting me till we’re alone…and try to keep your head down…”

 

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He’s walking back in on James, who’s not expecting to see him again so soon. Susie has gone silent and he’s exhausted. James has notes spread out on his desk, all with varied levels of importance. All of them referring to medical cases, as far as Butch can tell. Of course, he’d never bring out anything damning to be displayed, carelessly on his desk.

Not in the late afternoon of the day.

The Doctor is the first to speak, standing from his seat with swiftness. “…Butch…?” With a decided tone of annoyance, he nods his head to the girl he’s standing with. “She says she tripped…” He gives the doc a baleful scowl and James returns it with a haunted kind of understanding. Butch gives Susie’s hand a squeeze, before he lets go. He hears James talking calmly at her, before the doors to his office shut behind him as he walks away. “…Miss Mack…Susana, I’m sorry to see you again…I hoped I wouldn’t. Please sit. There’s med-x capsules on my desk. They should help with the pain.”

Of course James knew about her circumstances. Butch doesn’t know how to feel about that, but he hears it loud and clear in the Doctor’s tone. On the one hand it has him seeing the doctor in a different light. How could he just let her go on like she had and send her away, time after time? He’s sitting down sloppily and deciding that he’s not the person to judge him.

After all, he wasn’t any better… and James certainly seemed the better man, when it came to a lot of things.

He waits grimly for about half an hour, before the office doors open again. James walks beside her, but with a very clear gap between them. Butch gets to his feet and when Susie lifts her eyes to look at him, his heart squeezes. She’s pretty when her lips and cheeks aren’t black and blue. James has a look in his eyes that’s…curious.

Curious, with a hint of cold worry. He stands with his shoulders squared, his clipboard clutched dutifully in his hand. It’s as if he’s saying something else entirely, when he gives his final diagnosis. “…I trust you’ll be walking her home?” Butch shrugs, forgetting to act unfamiliar with the other man in his way of talking to him. “Would you?” He laughs sourly and bites his tongue.

Its uncomfortable parading Susie around in front of his future father-in-law. Susie looks from him to James and he hopes, that it just comes off as him being flippant. Youthful and impulsive. He looks at her with a mournful expression, shaking his head. “Nah…I don’t think so…” his eyes fix back on the doctor, who’s got a severe frown to his countenance.

Yet without suspicion, there’s curiosity and understanding in the doctor’s eyes. Butch scoffs, feeling short tempered as he fixes Susie with a somewhat, heartless comment. “…too many flights of stairs back at her place.” He regrets it a bit, when Susie’s face gets red with shame. Mortified and angry, but James just rolls with the punches and Susie doesn’t say a word. The doctor tilts his head, questioning and damn near unreadable to him in a lot of ways. “I see…”

Susie’s hugging herself tight like she might fall apart. The air feels mucky and stale, the truth lingering like an unspoken stain. Butch is tired, but the words come easy. “There’s a lot less steps lying around, with just me and my Ma’…pretty sure that’s where I’m taking her.” There’s this moment of silent inquiry. Butch doesn’t say a word, but a part of him is asking this man permission.

After what they’d spoken about just an hour or so earlier, loyalty was something he didn’t want questioned in the slightest. He wouldn’t betray his daughter and he could only hope that James believed that, with everything in him. He wanted to make that clear, but there weren’t words he could use that would help. Not in front of Susie. He can’t contain his obvious thanks though, when James gives him a regretful smile and says what he does. “I think that, is a very good destination. See that she avoids anymore _falls._ ”

It’s as if the Doc’s telling him “ _I trust you, son… and I’d do the same if I were you”_ without the words. Susie just turns her head down, like she doesn’t like being talked about like she’s not there. Butch reaches out to her, but she joins him without letting him pull on her. His father’s suit’s still clinging to her frame. There’s a small voice of lament, which is telling him it’s the wrong girl under the fabric.

His heart swells with utter thanks though, because she’s a lot prettier without those bruises. She’ll make it through this and he’ll be damned, if he doesn’t stick up for her. Tunnel Snakes were loyal through hell or high water and he’d been that way for too long to change. Too old for him to change anymore or so he figured. It made him proud in a way, seeing her with a fresh face and a willingness to let him lead her to something better.

He can’t help it though, wanting to see a blonde under that black coat and the words slip out. “Hey, Doc…” James nods at him politely. “Butch?” Susie’s looking up at him like he’s either the devil or someone to pity or her unlikely hero. She’s listening very hard to him though, so he shouldn’t be saying what he is. It’s his wife though and she’s the reason he’s alive, the only reason anymore.

His eyes flicker guiltily in Susie’s direction, but he stubbornly looks James in the face, while he talks. “…Tell Evangeline…” He can practically feel Susie boring holes into him with her eyes. It’s a mistake calling saying her first name, because he NEVER said her first name when he was young. He corrects himself roughly. “…Angie…” His ears listen intently to the way Susie’s breathing and his eyes go to the floor.

He knows how he’s got to act and it’s not like this, all sincere and guilty. So, shrugging his shoulders he turns his head away from James and thinks like he would, at 17. His voice is gruff and still a little too soft, but Susie stops looking at him so wounded. “-Tell your Kid… I couldn’t make her birthday this year… something came up. Again.” With a sneer and an honest bite to his voice he turns on his heel, ushering Susie out with him. “…You know how it is, Doc.” Unable to leave it like that though, he stops dead and with a severe look, James knows he’s not lying.

He’s never been more honest, when he says, “…and thanks…” he swallows roughly, saying it once more, more for himself really. “…Thank you.” The older man gives this quiet, odd little noise of amusement. Before they go their separate ways, the doctor just smiles at him dryly. James was a Wastelander if he ever heard one. “It’s my job. I only do what’s needed.” They share one last secretive moment, before Butch joins Susie on a very sullen journey home.

 

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She’s walking with her head down, his jacket held around her in her tight little hand. His house isn’t much farther down the hall, but they’re walking a lot slower. She hasn’t said a word since they left the clinic. He sighs, feeling a little defeated, by how quiet she’s being. When she stops walking dead in her tracks, he’s got a heavy heart.

Why’d he have to be the hero here? He doesn’t say a word, worried she’ll take off running back the way they’ve came. Her hair’s down, still looking a little wild. He’s not sure why she’s stopped there, but he doesn’t push her.

In a quiet tone, her words strike him down. “…are they gone?” He knows what she’s saying and it hurts. Looking down her, he just nods, talking like he’s speaking to a frightened cat. “…Yeah. Can’t even tell.” She’s got freckles on her upturned nose and green eyes, which are sharp and bright. They remind him of the glowing fungus in the Wasteland overhead, which used to stick out at night, like lanterns in the desert.

He sees her raise her chin up a bit. There’s a change in those green eyes of hers that he can’t really understand. She squares her shoulders, looking fragile, yet a little prideful. She’s got this expression, that’s just… she’s afraid, but she’s got too much pride to show it now. Her voice is different, like she’s suddenly some kind of debutante, when she knocks him with a really unfair question. “Do you think I’m pretty, Butch?”

His mouth forms a grim line. However he answers, all he can think of is Evangeline, bleeding out in his arms. He thinks it’s silly to have to answer something so…childish. He thinks it’s tough to answer, because yes…he does. She was a looker and she was his friend.

She made lonely nights less lonely. She laughed at his jokes. She never asked him for anything. She played a great game of cards and she was as mean, as she was manipulative. She was Susie Mack, the girl he was supposed to be going steady with.

Something about that makes him smile, fondly. She was something. She just wasn’t his someone. He’s got that wistful smile on his mouth, when he reaches up and uses a deft hand to brush her hair behind her ear.

Without heat or passion, but sincerity, his answer seems to leave her…begrudgingly satisfied. “Sure thing, Susie-Q. You’re real pretty…Yeah. I do.” He’s looking her dead in the eyes, with finality. She looks shocked. Like she’s seeing something, which she didn’t expect. Her brow furrows and she doesn’t know how to respond.

Her eyes flicker to the floor, then the wall and then she’s walking ahead of him without another word. Somehow, it felt like even though he’d said it before…this felt like they really were _over_. She’s heading to his house and he’s wondering how to get her settled in. It’s an easy problem compared to all the others in his head. He notices, that she’s walking a little taller too.

He thinks it wryly to himself. _‘Chick walks like a Mack… whatever the hell that means…’_ It’s like she’s got something… or maybe nothing to prove to anyone. He never took her for the brave kind, but she really is. He’s catching up to her in long strides and the silent trip feels a little lighter to him. His smile falls, when they make it to his front door.

His front door opens and the smell’s the first thing that gives it away. Anger as old as his jeans, flares up like acid. When Susie barrels by him, he grabs her arm, but she’s already through the door. He loved his Ma’…there was no doubt about that anymore.

The woman was nowhere near perfect though. Susie looks at him with wide eyes, as the front door closes them in, because of course he never let her see his mother like this. The livingroom’s soaked in Vodka, bottles empty all over the floor, one spilled over their coffee table. He snarls, because after giving up his day, his peace, and time with his wife, he’s got nothing left to give. “God damn it, Ma’! What the hell is this?”

His mother’s spread out on the couch, her eyes glassy. She’s sitting with an old veil on her head, a half empty bottle of beer in her fingers. It hurts like a wound that never went away, seeing her like this. He’s shaking, breathing harshly, pissed at her timing. When his mother’s head drags in his direction, his father’s name is full of slurred disbelief in the lush’s mouth. “...Danny…?”

He’s dealt with drunks before. He’s been drunk before more times than he can count. Hell, he was his mother’s kid and Angie had earned more than her fair share of drinks in life. His mother didn’t just _drink_ though. She **drowned** in the bottle.

Loosening his grip on Susie’s arm, his eyes dart to the red-head on his left. He takes a calming breath, because he must look a lot scarier than he thought. Susie’s looking at him like he’s a rabid dog. It’s really shitty feeling out of control, but he does right then. He can’t pretend he’s not an adult, because if his mother can’t be, he **will** be.

He’s feeling too old for this.

With steely eyes and a cold, sniper’s drawl, he has Susie frozen where she’s standing. “Stand back and let me get her into bed… she gets like this sometimes.” He’s on his feet and shuffling through bottles, quick as a bullet. He hates when his mother calls him- “Awe…Danny I…I did it again…I made a mess…”- she’s slurring and helpless, but he doesn’t feel bad for her. She did this to herself. He’s sighing and forcing himself to be calm, feeling a little too rattled for his liking. “-I don’t care how much I look like him. I’m not dad ‘n you’re sure as hell, not supposed to be in the bottle this early.”

Butch swears when she goes to stand and the beer slips out of her hands. “-Shit! Son of a bitch!” It’s all over the couch and it sets him off, because it’s not fair to Susie one bit. He’s pulling her up from under her arms with force, even if it’s careful force. She’s fighting him suddenly, a mean drunk all over the place, and her hands batting at his face. “Getcha hands offa’ me! Help! Sssomebody- HELP ME! NO!“ Having had a lot more practice in this than most anyone, he’s catching her hands.

Yelling at her, he’s not exactly gentle. “COME ON, Ma’! Enough already! Butch! I’m Butch! Your son! CUT THE SHIT!” He’s holding her up by her wrists and she’s using him to steady herself. His heart’s squeezing and his blood is boiling, when for one lucid moment she leans back, “seeing’ him. Her eyes all bloodshot, her voice disgustingly cheery all of a sudden. “Oh…Oh hi, Butchie! Oh…hey! I missed you! Where’d you go?” With a sober tone and un-laughing eyes, he’s talking to her without smiling. “You’re destroying this family and it never gets better, it’s never enough booze, and you never _forget_ what you try to drink away… was it worth it this time? You’re killing yourself, Mom…”

He’d never said anything like that to her before. She knows it too, because he rarely ever calls her “mom”…he forgets the last time he called her that, after he made it past 7 years old. Her face sobers for one brief moment, shocked lucid. He feels as deadly as the grave, looking at a sad picture from an old, old memory. He keeps a stone like expression, even when his mother’s voice breaks and tears sprung up in her eyes. “I…Oh Christ…I…I’m sorry, Butchie…”  

The words feel like something his wife must have told him, one night after he’d had a few. He shakes his head at her, feeling less pissed and more… he’s tired today. Tired of today. He was never the one that world could depend on. Here he was though… all that his mother or Susie had at the moment.

With a deep sigh, his mother’s sobbing and he’s pulling her into a tight hug. He rubs her back, his face hardened, his voice soothing and still somehow severe. “I know you are. …I know it’s hard when I’m gone…” He fights the urge to tear up, feeling Susie’s eyes on them, at the sound of his watery words. “...I’m sorry too.” He’s sorry about a lot of things. Sorry that the scent of vodka and his mother’s perfume somehow feels like his biggest regret.

He never took away the bottles and he’d been too young to admit it, when something needed to change. It was easy to ignore everybody else and just live. Raise hell. Rule the vault. He had so little power before, that he couldn’t even take care of his mother like he should have.

He’d been a failure and the vault had told him all his life, that that’s all he would be.

He pats his mother between her shoulder blades firmly, comforting her. Even though he’s not nearly as strong as he used to be, his mother wasn’t very large. He’s manhandling her over his shoulder, with a little more strain than he likes. She’s still crying, when he talks to her again, her bedroom door already open. “Upsidaisy… you’re tired, Ma’. Let’s get you into bed.” She struggles a little, swearing and sobbing. “-BUTCH! I’m sorry…oh god, I’m real sorry! M’put me down- is that your father’s… Mm fine! PUT ME DOWN!”

His anger boils over inside his brain, but after a short fight, his mother’s passed out under the covers in her bedroom. It’s just one thing after the other. When it all settles down around him, he’s facing Susie again. Standing stiffly in front of his mother’s door, too many thoughts to count in his mind. She’s sitting at his kitchen table, just… staring at him.

He’s breathing hard and his face betrays how messed up he’s feeling. He runs a hand through his hair, staring at the bottles all over their living room rug. All around the couch… waiting for him to pick them up. He was always picking them up.  He huffs out a rough sound of dissatisfaction, talking low, walking in long strides towards the couch. “...If I knew she’d be out here, I’d have warned you to wait outside.”

He’s falling into an easy rhythm that’s an old familiar ritual. He’s padding across the rug and leaning over, counting bottles. 1, 2, 3, 4…and Susie’s voice is calm across the room. “People talk… it’s not like I didn’t know…” It doesn’t bother him like it might have a long time ago, what people said about him and his Ma’. He’s lining up the empty bottles on the coffee table, seeing a box full of his mother’s keepsakes sitting open on the faded wood.

Of course she started missing him. He’d given her the damn reminder. He never really knew his father and he’d always envied Angie for having one so…alive. He laughs derisively. “Seeing it for yourself and hearing about it are two different things.” Feeling shaky in his hands, as he closes the worn, cream colored shoe box and sets it neatly on the end table, where the lamp’s still sitting upright.

Least his mother hadn’t knocked the damn thing over, as he got her to bed.

The box is filled with things, that he doesn’t want to look at till he’s got more time. Susie’s voice feels far away to him, while he’s keeping his hands moving. “You’re not thinking clearly about…about any of this, are you?” He’s answering her without a pause. “About what? What’s there to think about?” There’s a plastic blue bin behind the couch, specifically for picking up after his mother’s bingeing, which he’ll never forget. He hurriedly leans over the back of the sofa, to pick it up, the action coming back to him naturally.

He’s blocking out everything, but the task at hand, as he shoves the lined up bottles into the bin. With a loud clatter, they go in, while he complains under his breath. “Thinking in circles is all I’ve been doing- ‘m pretty sick of it too.” He sets the bin down and finds more bottles around the edges of the couch. The bin’s almost overflowing, by the time he finds what he hopes is all of them.

Susie’s eyes are following him as he works, her voice taking away from his ability to stay detached from what he’s doing. “What? Do you think that my parents are just going to agree to this? They won’t let me stay here.” His nose is used to the Wasteland’s aroma and the vault is a lot…crisper that it smells outside. Clearer almost. So the alcohol is clearer and sharper in his nose. He’s got it in the back of his head, that he’s going to pour out all the liquor, the first chance he gets.

When he picks up the beer his mother spilled all over the couch, the bin’s already too full to balance it. His gut clenches at his shitty luck, knowing he’s got to get the damn cushion cleaned. He can only count his blessings, that the pull out beneath should be dry. There’s nothing he could immediately do for the smell stuck in the carpet though. He’s more bitter about his mother’s vice, than he wants to think about.

It leaves his tone a little annoyed, when he answers Susie’s nit-picking. “I’ll fight them on it then. There’s nothing they could do anyway- you’re old enough to sign all the papers and everyone’ll just think we’re…” he can’t get the look of Evangeline’s face, when the gossip starts getting around. He sighs roughly, cutting himself off. “-Either way, I don’t care. You can’t live with them like this. Not anymore.” Stalking towards the kitchen, bin under his arm, empty beer bottle dangling in his free hand. He slides the bin onto the island counter by the trash can, the lone bottle beside it, Susie still needling him on his left. “-It’s not going to work…When…When Stevie…or Wally…when they find out… You don’t know my family. THIS ISN’T GOING TO WORK!”

He's sick of her giving him problems instead of solutions. He knows that if she didn’t want to be here, that she wouldn’t have walked here. It pisses him off enough that he snaps at her. “-Then what the hell are you even here for?!” Suddenly, without thinking, his hand knocks that damn beer bottle off the island. Before he can catch it, it falls onto the kitchen tile and shatters.

She startles and his jaw clenches at the sound. It’s quiet in his house again. The shattering of glass, just as familiar as the bin behind the couch. He feels like the pressures gotten to him, but he can’t let it win. He turns his face to her and she’s still trying to calm her racing heart, even as he tries to calm himself.

He takes a deep breath, swearing with a deflated tinge in his voice. “Shit…” Her eyes look up at him and he just gives up the tension. His shoulders slump and his words are even. “…Susie…I know if you hadn’t already made up your mind…that you wouldn’t be sitting here… -I already KNOW how screwed we are! I hear you. I get it…so, please…just…please…” He shuts his eyes and runs his fingers back into his hair. He leans over the counter heavily, feeling drained and thinking back to James without meaning to.

The man’s smart. He’s got to be smart enough to put them ahead of the game. He wants to lie down and shut his thoughts off, before the world starts caving in on him again. He feels like his skull’s full of dust and too many reasons to just lie down and give up. He can’t stand hearing about how much Susie’s doubting.

He doesn’t need any more doubt right now. He’s got to get her settled and pick up that glass…set up the pull out. When he faces the girl who’s depending on him without any other choice really, she gets the message. He shakes his head and she just gives him a respectful nod. He can’t handle everything on his own, but helping Susie isn’t even close to **everything**.

But she’s got problems, that he can handle and they’re not what he’s really worried about.

They don’t talk about it anymore, as he works.

He’s thankful.

He’s got too much on his mind as it is.

Susie’s got not idea, about what he’s capable of doing…not a damn clue.

 

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A pen is jotting down notes with a smooth consistency.

James laxly sits at his desk, with a stoic quality to his features.

Purity was his life’s work and it had been a damn near an obsession in his youth.

He’d thought he’d seen a great many extraordinary and terrible things.

This new found discovery, went with both of those thoughts.

He couldn’t have believed it, unless he’d seen it. Even as he meticulously catalogued the amount of chems they had left in the pharmacy, his mind worked elsewhere. He felt spurned on by the knowledge, that he would one day fulfill his dream. Catharine’s dream… clean water for everyone.

It had to come first. It had to. The chip now laying in his pocket, was almost beyond imagination- beyond ignoring. What Butch had told him was shocking to put it mildly, but even so. Purity was still his focus and yet, Time-Travel?

If he stopped to think about what might come to be, it would be too much. The look on Butch’s face, was so foreign and the story was out of the realm of what he’d thought possible. He was already under the eye of the Overseer as it was. With a thing like this, just sitting in his pocket? He had to be careful.

He had to see this through.

The door to his office opens to his curiosity. There weren’t any more appointments, as far he knew. His face remains decidedly reserved, even as Alphonse Almodavar comes in unannounced. He did not like the man and The Overseer did not like him. They were both aware of it and there was no mistaking it.

So, when the Overseer stops by his office without warning, it’s never good news. Polite in his greeting, James keeps a skillfully dull expression. “…Overseer.” His smile is tight, but if he didn’t smile, the other man would have gotten the better of him. “To what do I owe the pleasure of you stopping in?” The Overseer’s eyes, narrow with a noticeable kind of distain. He cuts right to the point, not smiling in the slightest, with a venomous accusation. “You’ve been spending quite a lot of, unaccounted for time, inside the reactor. It has not gone unnoticed.”

James is well versed in this game of cat and mouse. Dropping his smile, James does not let his eyes break contact with the Overseer’s. He knows Alphonse has been getting more and more suspicious. More erratic. Paranoid.

His smile comes back with a casual chuckle. His tone of voice full of denial and neutrality. “I’m not sure I understand. What’s this about?” The Overseer steps forward and with a very slow lean, he rests his hands at James’ desk. James simply remains casual, though his pulse quickens. Alphonse didn’t have reason to act.

Not yet.

His voice is past politics and very distrustful. “I think you know **FULL** well, why I’m here. I’m onto you, James.” James doesn’t make a sudden move. Instead, he simply places his pen down and calmly folds his hands. He matches the Overseer with as civil a voice as he can keep. “Is this an interrogation, Alphonse?” There’s a thick static in the air, as The Overseer glares openly at the Doctor.

The Overseer, measures him with an icy glare, before slowly he leans off his desk. Then, a tight, fanged smile stretches across the older man’s mouth, while he replies caustically. “Merely an inspection.” James sits without showing his hand, even as Alphonse sneers at him. The Overseer’s threats don’t usually bother him, but he barely holds his tongue, at Almodavar’s tone. “Your daughter has your manner about her…  I would hate to find anything incriminating, which might discredit her suitability for… future work placement.” James is only so giving.

It's not his baby girl’s work placement the man is threatening. It’s her future. It’s just deliberately one word off from being _vault_ placement. Unable to stop himself, he rises to his feet and replies less than politely. “You’ll leave my daughter out of this blind search or on my word, I promise you-“The Overseer cuts him off with a wildly irritating smugness to his every word and movement. “-Is that treason I’m hearing? Oh DO go on! Give me a reason!”

Despite every bone is his body, telling him to hit the man, he reigns himself in. James pauses and with a tight jaw, he smiles like a wall of immovable rock. Voice level, refusing to back down from the Overseer’s unwavering repulsiveness. “…I promise you my daughter is quite capable. Resourceful. Already proving to have a very credible work ethic… an asset to this vault. I’m sure most would agree.” The two face off with an unhidden distaste for one another. The Overseer’s sneer falls, distrust and revulsion written all over his face.

The pompous dictator in every meaning of the word, in James’ eyes. The Overseer crosses his arms behind his back, a very military-esque stance of dismissal evident to him. Before the man backs away, he fixes James with a warning, which leaves a bad taste in the doctor’s mouth. “One toe out of line… that’s all it takes, to upset the balance that we’ve had for so long. I WILL not tolerate an upset. That’s all it takes. One…Toe.” James remains standing even as Alphonse turns his back. Before he leaves, he stops one final time in his office’s doorway.

A scathing promise leaves the Overseer’s mouth. “More inspections will be in order. As Overseer, it’s my duty to make sure everything STAYS in order.” Then just as abruptly as he arrived, he leaves. James feels himself tense, as soon as there’s no longer an audience with him. He sighs deeply, letting his legs give out, as he falls back into his seat. He rubs his palms into his tired eyes and leans back into his chair.

With threats like that, it was only a matter of time. The Overseer was on a witch hunt from the day he’d first stepped into 101. He’s putting his work away then, shuffling papers and feeling a deadline approaching fast. Time was short and his daughter’s future, was apparently riding on his ability to tackle 2 things at once. He’s leaning with his head on his desk, assured now, of one very inarguable issue.

He can’t run from Purity… any longer.

**((TBC))**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I should be making edits to this as I go along, lolol.


	10. In 7 Days Gone By

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heyo! I may not have updated in 5 months, but I am still alive and working on a few things. I'm hoping you guys like this update and that I can keep sharing whenever I can! Thanks to everyone who's given me their support! It encourages me each time I get a comment! Thank you all so much! :)

Out in the Wasteland, gossip was either the idle kind or the world changing kind. The idle kind was kept to friends and neighbors in whatever settlement you were in. The world changing kind, or more accurately, Capital Wasteland shaking news, had Three Dog’s voice to speak it out, loud on the radio airways. If you wanted to spread news farther than your neighbors doorstep though? Couriers could take fucking months or if they were murdered, you’d never get your package.

Assuming you even knew a package was on its way to begin with.

The Wasteland was big, but the world was even larger. Letters, being the only real form of communication, outside of whatever could be made out on the radio. It was hard to get the word out if you had something to say. The only thing Butch could really compare the vault’s gossip mill to, would have to have been the way people talked over in Rivet City. Even then… there would still be a ton of strangers, which would never even know, that ol’ Tammy Hargrave had a drinking problem.

There’d be at least a thousand people, who wouldn’t even know who Tammy was.

The Forbidden City sure as hell wouldn’t be talking about Tammy Hargrave. Who knows what they were talking about over there? So in a way, you’d never have to worry about the whole world knowing your dirty laundry. The world was out to kill you no matter who you were screwing over, either way. The Wasteland was just too big to know everybody who’d ever lived in it or whose husband was cheating on who. 

However, in the vault?

…the vault was small…and boring.

A lot could get around about you without much effort.

It didn’t take much effort at all or time either.

A lot could happen in a week.

**One Week Later**

Whispering women in the hallways. Men talking under their breath while shaking their heads. Outside of the mess hall, it’s been the talk of 101. “…Can’t believe it took the guy so long to figure it out. Everybody knew the Snake was knocking boots with his sister.” One man chuckles to a woman with black hair in her Sunday’s best dress. The yellow fabric getting smoothed under her palms, as she conspires excitedly. “-Were you there when the Mack’s son confronted him? During the fight?”

Another group, 3 elderly ladies, old and grey, even they’re talking about it in the dinner. “…Such a scandal.” One croons. “I hear they’re living together now…” Another tskes. “Allen and Gloria Mack are fighting it, but the daughter’s signed all the paperwork.” The 3rd of the knitting circle chides.

Somewhere in 101, a gaggle of younger middle school girls have left the swim hall, cackling a new nursery rhyme. “Susie the floozy! Susie the floozy! She’ll charm your snake and won’t be choosy!” While the slightly older captain scolds them halfheartedly. “Settle down, ladies! Goodness…which one of you came up with that?” Even the men working down in maintenance tightening the bolts in the wall supports have heard the story.

Stanley’s rubbing the back of his neck muttering, while Jim Wilkin’s finishes the last few turns of his ratchet. “You know everyone’s been saying he bullied her into it, but I don’t know…” Jim wipes his brow, glaring at the metal support holding the wall together. “My sister says Deloria’s actually looking out for her…I wouldn’t really know either way.” Stanley makes a comment on how good a job Jim’s doing. “You’re learning quick, Jim! Haven’t stripped a bolt this month. Good work.” While Jim just scowls and brings more gossip to the table. “People in the lower levels keep trying to come up here. Is it true that the vault’s actually rusting down there?” Stanley’s shoulders go tight, a look of dread in his grey eyes. “The Unclean are getting restless and who’d blame them…”

Jim’s putting away his tools back into his belt and Stanley’s tone is bothered. “…the whole vault’s falling apart. It won’t be long before the rust starts reaching us up here. The Overseer just seems preoccupied with other things. Won’t let us guys in maintenance go down anymore without all the bureaucracy…the people down there are having to fend for themselves.”

Jim nods halfheartedly. “It just ain’t right.”

Monica Kendal’s got a wry smile and a mouth full of dry sarcasm. “Never thought that The Future Overseer, would want to take a roll around in the snake pit. Out of everyone. Oh brother. I think hell might have just froze over.” Janice Wilkin’s just sips her milkshake quietly, as they sit at their corner in the bar. When the mousy little red head speaks up, she’s polite and accusatory. “Paul looks happier though. Wouldn’t you say, Mon?” The youngest Kendal hums with boredom. “Hannon’s ready to pop a gasket. With Wally and Butch at odds, I think the poor guy’s just trying to escape their feud.” Janice shrugs, blushing and shy. “…Amata seems happier too.”

Monica’s sharp green eyes narrow at the atrium door ajar behind them. Two girls about her age, a dishwater blonde and a mossy brown haired chick, who she must have met at some point. Everybody knows everybody in 101 and it’s not like she hasn’t seen the same faces a million times before. There’s a boy with beady brown eyes and ginger hair between them, whose first name is Derry. She only turns her head because of the name, which she hears being badmouthed between them.

The boy with a nasally voice and a slight effeminate drawl, Derry, snickers cattily to the blonde. “Oh we all know, that Susana Mack, was sleeping around before! You just know, that even when she marries that thug, it’s not going to stop. Not with girls like her…” Something about the sureness of the way the blonde responds, puts dirt under Monica’s fingernails. “He beat her into agreeing to be with him you know! Everyone saw them last week making a b-line for the clinic. Her face was completely beaten in!” The greasy little moss haired girl, laughs shrilly, seemingly having poor Janice flinching next to her. “-I think she likes it rough! Whores like her, well they all do really. That Butch is a real animal!”

The dishwater blonde snarks rudely. “Yes. A real snake alright.” Derry snorts with derision, his nose in the air, talking at the blonde. “More like a pig if you ask me, Kinzie. Forcing her away from her family.” Monica almost has the urge to go over there and defend Susie. She doesn’t get up though, till that mousy little brown haired bitch, adjusts her Liberian’s glasses and says, “You just know that Officer Mack could knock some sense into her! He keeps Gloria in place! …but she’d probably just get off on that too.” The metal tray in front of Monica screeches across the bar top.

Kinzie’s laughing and giving a disgustingly playful shove into the other girl’s shoulder. “Oh, Martha! Don’t be gross!” Before Monica has the chance to act on her impulse, her sister’s cold voice, sends a chill down her spine. “I think all three of you are exceedingly gross, personally. It’s rude, blocking the doorway. Like garbage bags that have yet to be dealt with. It should be a sin for you to even enter the diner. Because honestly Derry, Kinzie, Martha…?” Christine laughs icily and the gossip’s all seem to go rigid. “Well…I’m losing my appetite just looking at you 3!” The three part and there’s The Ice Queen of 101.

She looks damn near hypothermic too. The girl’s faces go white, but Derry still has the courage to be snide. “…Christy. We didn’t even notice you.” Monica can always tell when her sister is genuinely upset. Her eyes go dim and her smile feels more like a string of filthy swears. “A shame I noticed you.” As much as Christine might have picked on their mutual friend, it was clear she truly loved Susie.

Especially, when Christine gives Derry a dagger sweet tone. “I notice a lot of things, Derrell.” She folds her hands in front of her, her pink dress well pressed and looking too perfect. Monica can already tell what’s coming. Her sister’s out for blood and in the disinterested way Christine seems to eye at her nails, she fools no one. With one bored sentence, Derry’s fire is sucked right from him. “I think if you three, would like to converse, about what whore’s like in the bedroom? Well, Derry why don’t you give us a play by play…”

Smoothing her dress down again, her tone is acidic. “The way you were shrieking like a dying rat yesterday…that **was** you in the men’s room, wasn’t it? Near dorm block 3? Oh!” If looks could kill, they’d all be on the floor.  “We should be asking you! What do promiscuous _women_ like, Derrell?” She watches Derry’s face go as stark as his companions. Without allowing any argument out of him, Christine digs a nail into him. “I notice a great many things. Like how I noticed you bent over the sink with…” Airing Derrell’s dirty not so little secret, reminded Monica, of just how much leverage her sister truly had. “…was it Bucky Tomson I saw you go limping after? Maybe we should ask him what women like?”

Derry’s face is so white and ashamed, Monica feels oddly sorry toward him. Christine doesn’t let up once she’s started to bleed a vein however. Secrets were like currency in 101 and Christine was a very wealthy young woman. Christy’s words are as damning as they are dangerous for Derry. “…What _do_ whore’s like? What’s it like being a woman, Derry?” Without a word, Derrell turns on his heel and takes off into the dinner, making for the hallway.

Abandoning the other two women to Christine’s parting blows.

Speechless at the sight of their retreating companion, Christine deals another set of verbal backhands. “Oh and Martha! How far along are you?” Putting a polite hand to her mouth, Christine is intentionally unconvincing in her faux paus. “Oh! My mistake, my word! What bad manners I have! You haven’t told anyone yet have you?” Martha Merriweather is startled by the comment. She too is wracked with shame, because it appears to hold truth to it. As if in some attempt to gather her courage, Martha reaches for Kinzie’s hand.

Rounding on Christine, flabbergasted. “I beg your pardon!” Martha’s back straightens bravely. Only to be deflated again, when Kendal the Cold Front smiles and cuts her again. “Oh, you’re pardoned! I shouldn’t have said anything!” Christine’s laughingly contrite expression, is followed by a poisonously friendly bit of advice. “Between you and I, I’m sure Officer Wolfe would make a wonderful husband.” Martha’s free hand goes to her stomach. 

She catches herself in the act too late. Christine’s eyes follow the motion like a viper’s, finishing the brown mouse off. “I’m sure his wife would agree with me. Shall we go ask her how their marriage fairs over lunch?” Another stark white face, as another secret gets aired into the open. Martha’s fingers release her friend’s, their front divided. Martha’s eyes water and without a word, she glares at Christine, thoroughly chided.

Turning on her heel, Martha berates Christine one last time in her retreat out into the atrium. “I hope your secrets find you too!” Left as the last of the gossipers, Kinzie’s defenseless on her own, calling after her friend. “Martha, wait!” Strength in numbers are how the weak get by. Without batting an eyelash, still livid, Christine towers over the shorter woman. “Kinzie Dear… I think you have some Mentat dust under your nose.” Kinzie’s hand covers her nose, her blue eyes wide behind her glasses.

Shaking in her shoes, Kinzie shrieks loudly. “You complete bitch!” The dishwater blonde’s hands now balled into fists at her sides. Christine shakes her head, tsking, taking a threatening step into McKenzie’s personal space. “My, my…not a single clever thing to say. Hooked on those Tats like you are, I’m a little disappointed.” Not leaving her time to move, Christine’s smile is snapped off. She pushes past her deliberately. “You are still in my way.”

Kinzie stumbles back a little into the atrium. She’s either ready to throw a punch or run away, seemingly deciding. Christine eyes her like a fly on her shoulder. “You don’t want to be in my way. I removed things that get in my way. –I take out the trash when it piles up too high.” Kinzie goes to open her mouth, only to be interrupted, sharply. “Have a nice lunch, Kinzie.” Monica has never really seen Christine get violent before.

As far as she knows, she hasn’t had to. When Kinzie stupidly goes to challenge her again, the air seems to drop a few degrees. Monica wonders if it’s about to be the first time her sister physically lashes out towards someone. Christine, unable to hide her anger, her sweet cyanide voice is nothing but cold and fear inducing. “Keep the name “Mack” out of your **filthy** little mouth. _Unless_ you’d like me to **notice** a few more things. I’ll happily bring them to other people’s attention too.” Kinzie finally shrinks away, wide eyed, with a sound of affront, as she bolts off after Martha.

Then just like that, Monica, Janice, and Christine lock eyes.

Christine just nods politely in greeting, neutrality on her face eerily swift. “Little Sister. Janice.” Before continuing on her way, she bids them a very curt goodbye. “I’m sorry, but I have somewhere I need to be right now.” Her little black heels click out into the hall, a chill in the room she left behind. She looks over her shoulder discreetly, before make a few turns. After about 15 turns into different corridors, she’s standing in a dimly lit hallway.

It looks as if maintenance hasn’t been in the hall, in quite a long time. The floor’s scuffed. The walls are dull, along with all the steel around her really. 101’s best rendition of a sordid back alley. The perfect place to make an illegal trade.

A 2nd pair of boots comes to a stop behind her. She doesn’t have to look to know who it is. It’s polite to greet someone who you’re doing business with however, so she does so, facing the owner of those boots. “You’re late, Wally.” Low and behold, the stern scowl of Wally Mack, stands before her. The lines of his square face, are magnified by the shadows of the dimly lit hall. “-Do you think I’m braindead? Not taking the chance of being followed!”

Wally Mack, normally cool and calculated, appears itchy where he stands. Twitchy. Fidgety. Agitated and ready to start throwing punches. He’s looking over his shoulder, moving closer into the hall. “You had to wait a little, cry me a bleeding river. Frankly I don’t give a damn.”

He stands too close out of paranoia. Not intimacy. Whispering irately at her. “Don’t give me a hard time, Kendal. If this is blackmail, you’ll wish I never came at all. I’ll deny everything and knock your teeth in as a parting gift.” Without batting an eyelash, she just quirks her head and makes a wry little jab at him. “Speaking of giving people a hard time, how’s that Unclean lover of yours?” He goes to raise his hand, but calmly, she goes on. “-Lay a hand on me and I walk. I walk and your future goes with me.”

Her eyes narrow up at him, calculating. “…Whether I leave with all my teeth or not.”

Conflict lurks in Mack’s eyes, as he grits his teeth snarling at her. “-Give me one reason why I shouldn’t knock your pretty nose in?” He’s got no qualms about laying a hand on a woman. Not if they deserve it. His backhand poised to strike, shaking. Whatever he needs from Christine, is clearly grave.

Her voice even and emotionless, but full of clever negotiation. “Your lover for one. Mine as well, though you don’t know them. If you can’t play nice, I promise you there’s not many other women, who would be as generous with you.” He lowers his hand. Hissing a harsh breath through his clenched teeth. “Keep your dumb mouth shut then! Don’t test me.” She wouldn’t have been so bold, if she didn’t have him by the balls. He’s talking down to her, clearly still on edge. “Security’s been crawling all over the fucking walls like radroaches in heat.”

She scoffs lightly at him. “I think you’re exaggerating.”

Wally sneers, just as violent and unpleasant as ever. “My father’s practically the damn chief! For fucking…” Fists balled up at his sides, it’s still tempting, the idea of knocking her down. Taking a few deep breaths, his shark like eyes flicker over her features. His voice lowered, conspiring. “-You think I don’t know what’s on his calendar?” An almost unreadable look of fear, flits into the hardness of his terrible personality. “They’re cracking down, below. They’re everywhere. I’ve seen the guard patrols increasing with my own eyes.”

With a fluid change of subject, Christine nods politely. “Right.” Then with an even drawl, she’s folding her hands in front of her, all business. “Then let’s get to business.” She’s wearing a politician’s mask of a smile, aware of the fact that she’s holding all the cards. Wally snorts without a smile, but there’s a bit of respect for her, hiding in his head. “Frigid bitch.” Christine shrugs without batting an eyelash. “Well, that’s why you came to me first right? Why you agreed to discuss terms?”

Wally tskes with disgust. “You’d make a better man than a woman.” Once again looking over his shoulder anxiously, she’s making a sly joke at him. “That only adds to this arrangement for you I’m sure.” Christine smiles unoffended. She’s a shark just testing the waters, by swimming carefully across from another kind of shark. “I’m a very good person to have in your corner, Wally. Just ask your sister.” Borderline murderous, Wally spits at her, flipping on her like a dime. “-Don’t you **ever** mention her to my face again!”

Christine cuts in again, cool as ice even at his sudden outburst. “-Let’s get back on topic. I don’t have the patience for your feelings. Or the time. Or the desire, Mack.” Wally goes quiet, like a wolf assessing how to best tear the throat out of its prey. It’s something to see. The Kendal’s and the Mack’s are well known for being two of the best connected families in the vault. One dealing in dirty secrets and the other in dirty deeds.

Violence and manipulation walk into a dimly lit hallway.

Arms crossed in front of his chest, not a speck of leather on him. All Mack and all bite. He immediately cuts to the chase. “Whatever terms you’re thinking of, you can forget it. I’ve got my own.” Christine’s calm façade cracks a bit into something deadly. Wally, unaffected carries on. “-I can **always** find another partner! I’m a Mack! Girls are already being pitched to me by their families. If you’re going to be difficult, I **can** drop you in a hot minute-” Christine outright laughs then, fearless. “Don’t you _patronize_ me!”

Her back straightens, nothing but spine. Her Asian heritage something to behold, with such a livid and cutting tone. “-I’d like to see you breech this subject with **anyone** besides me!” She’s not afraid to be hit by him, because he wouldn’t dare. Hissing at him, she’s far from being cowed by him. “I’d purchase tickets! The second- the **instant** any woman heard about your hobbies!” Her laugh is cut off and her voice even. “Don’t make me laugh! I’m your only option, Wally. You and I are both aware of it!” A fire of pure rage flares into Wallace Mack’s eyes.

Never tell a Mack, that you’ve got them backed into a corner. If Wally weren’t desperate, he’d have walked away at the first jab at him. She wouldn’t have either. As pissed as he was at the eldest Kendal sister, he respected her balls. She was cold and calculating, just like he was.

Christine Kendal, knew how to play the long game.

Just like him.

Begrudgingly, he holds out his hand to shake hers. She doesn’t take it, as he makes his last threat, as real as it is savage. “ **Don’t** get it twisted around, Christine. You need me too.” Her eyes slowly drag down to his offered hand. She doesn’t take it. Instead, she lays out her terms. “I want an open marriage.” He says the word like he’s vomiting it at her. “Likewise.”

She doesn’t stop there. “Our rations coupons will **not** be merged and I will have my own funds separate from yours. Your family will never hold leverage over me.” Again, still holding his hand out, he hurls the word at her in disgust. “FINE.” She goes to slowly take his hand, but not before she lays out one more brief condition, before they truly start discussing their deal. “Separate beds. Nonnegotiable. And when the time comes, I want my own room. I know they’ve got spares in the apartment you’ll be inheriting.” She takes his hand and with a mean bark of agreement, he shakes hers. “-just thinking of you naked makes me want to barf.”

She smiles sweetly, humming out a small, venomous laugh. “Oh **likewise** …

…Dear, dear future Husband.”

The match of a lifetime. A Mack and a Kendal. Something dark holding their dealings together. If anyone looked down that alley? They’d have seen history in the making.

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_There’s a bloodstain on the ancient, filthy tile floor._

_There’s a bloodstain drip, where a freshly mutilated corpse has been shoved violently into the yellowed sink._

_There’s a ringing in his ears and an icepick of adrenaline, slamming into his veins._

_It was the first time he’d ever seen something so horrible._

_He feels like throwing up his Spam- he feels like he should have stayed in Megaton- he should have listened when she told him not to go in with her._

_His knees are shaking and then out of the blue, there’s gunfire, but he can’t even move. She’s crashing into his back and practically kicking him in the ass to get him moving. Rushing him into one of the stalls, she’s telling him to take cover. Knocking the bathroom door shut behind her, planting her back against it. Where did it go wrong?_

_He doesn’t know what to do. He’s scared. He’s killed a few molerat’s and she’s killed more than few people. He’s scared and she’s brave. He’s so damn scared that the next corpse in the sink is gonna be his._

_Who does that to a kid- **a fuckin’ kid**?_

_The smell is rancid and rotten. Disgusting. He hears her, like a faraway voice in a distant war. “…stay…fire’s spread…20 of them…gonna make…a way…” He sees her, like she’s the brightest thing in the room. She doesn’t even bat an eyelash at the bloody mess in the porcelain dish._

_She pulls the pins out of 5 grenades at once and throws them out the bathroom door. He feels the weight of the assault rifle she gave him in his hands, but it’s dull. Even in the vault’s worst rebellion days, nobody got turned into fuckin’ soup like that. He can’t move and he can’t breathe. Her blues eyes turn on him and he remembers those eyes from when he used to pull on her hair in preschool._

_He remembers them looking so much less cold. Her mouth moves and the explosion shakes the walls around them, in the wake of her words. “…fire’s spread…stay out of it…Molotov’s…they’re gonna come in… Deloria?” He doesn’t have a word to say or a thought in his mind. When the raiders started pouring in, he didn’t have time to think. He barely has time to raise his weapon, before he’s being rushed by a monster of a man._

_Bang. Bang. Bang. He didn’t pull the trigger in time. He doesn’t even know the person he grew up with, that’s standing in front of him anymore._

_That person’s gone._

_He can’t even recognize the snarling madwoman, who’s just killed 3 raiders without taking a pause. She shot the one coming for him and left herself wide open for another. He stands stock still, like he’s watching a movie in slow motion. She pulls a huge knife out of her belt and slits her attacker’s throat. She’s biting the tip off a stim and stabbing it into her arm violently, while tearing a switchblade out of her shoulder simultaneously._

_There’s blood all over her. The wound she got, because his useless hide couldn’t fire a single shot, adding her blood to the mix. In that moment, she’s covered in blood and he swears he’s seeing the devil in her eyes. Her voice shocks through his brain like a bolt of pure electricity to the heart, her eyes blazing at him. “THE BUILDING’S BURNING, DELORIA! HAUL ASS! LET’S GO!! GO! GO! MOVE! INTO THE HALL!” Finally, his legs steady themselves under him._

_It was the first time he ever fought like that. Where there was no hope and the world was literally burning around them. First real gunfight. They were so young. Only this time it’s different._

_They don’t make it out. He’s running ahead of her, but when he looks back, the ceilings coming down. He doesn’t remember that happening. He breaks through the door they walked in from, but the Wasteland doesn’t greet them. It’s a concrete cell, with no windows or doors._

_101 etched into the center of the soot stained concrete jaggedly. Flames are roaring at his heels and his whole body’s shaking. Where is she though? He turns on his heel and there she is barreling through the door behind him. There’s soot all smeared over her face, ash in her hair, the dirty strands hanging in her wild expression._

_She sees the dead end. “No…no…Butch…what have you done?” He sees the blazing inferno behind her and he feels terrified. He can’t breathe. The smoke’s filling the room and he’s shaking his head, hysterically begging her for forgiveness. “I didn’t- I…I’m sorry!” She’s staring at him with a face covered in sheer agony._

_Tears in her eyes. He sees a raging deathclaw barreling up out of the hallway behind her. She cries out in a soul shattering kind of wail. “You’ve killed us all!” He shakes his head, having the sense to race towards the open double doors. The deathclaw, like a demon straight from the pit._

_He can’t breathe. There’s smoke in his lungs. There’s embers burning him from the inside out. He can’t breathe-he’s suffocating to death. It’s all his fault._

_He tears her into the room by the wrist, just as the deathclaw slams into the doors. She screams as if they’ve lost their first born son. “YOU’VE KILLED US ALL!” He stumbles backward into the darkness. Evangeline’s crying behind him and it hurts. He failed her- he was a failure._

_He was exactly what everyone had told him all his life. Panicking, he suddenly looks down and sees blood all over his hands. He chokes and is horrified, when he spits up blood. Guilty. He’s guilty._

_He couldn’t do anything to stop them. He couldn’t put the fire out. He couldn’t do anything. He…he’s drowning in his own blood and failure. He falls to his knees and sees the blurred outline of blonde hair over him._

_Her voice is getting farther and farther away, even though it sounds like she’s screaming at him. “NO...NO! …BUTCH…Butch…don’t…lea…butch…please live…” It hurts. It hurts so much. Then he hears screaming again, off in the distance. The crying of a baby and the tearing of a plasma laser._

_It only takes him a very short time, in the ink black darkness, to realize that he’s the one, whose screaming his lungs out._

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He wakes to the cool grey steel of his bedroom in a cold sweat.

Squalling like a new born.

Bolted upright, the nightmare still loud in his ears.

His heart hammering painfully, his breath ragged, his throat raw.

His bedroom door slides open and in runs Susie, looking afraid. “Butch! Butch, what’s the matter?”

It all starts to settle inside him. The guilt and the burning building…the rebellion was coming and The Unclean were going to burn too. Shirtless, grey sheets bunched in his lap and clenched in his hands. Eyes still trying to focus, his tired voice ugly to his own ears. “Uh…I-“ He swallows running a hand through his sweat damp hair. “-bad dream. ‘m fine.”

Red hair curled, clean, and soft, as she tucks it behind her ear. Licking her lips nervously, she goes to sit beside him. “Do- do you want me to-?” He cuts her off holding up a hand and waving her away, feeling too rough to sugarcoat his bad mood. “-no! No, jus’ leave me alone.” She stops in her tracks, voice gentle, irritating him by pressing him. “Well, then do you want to talk about-“Glaring at her, he’s a lot harsher than he needs to be. “-You are the last thing I need to wake up to.”

She looks hurt, the yellow dress so bright on her frame, that it’s stinging his eyes. Her voice devoid of tears and full of fresh anger. “Well, go right to hell then! See if I ever come running when you scream again! I hope next time it’s serious!” He sighs roughly, catching himself being an asshole. He looks up at her, lost and tired, trying to apologize. “-Look, Sus’ I…I didn’t mean…’m doin’ my best, alright?” She looks at him like he’s either a freak show escapee or a charity case.

Her voice isn’t nearly as soft as it used to be towards him. “Didn’t mean to what? Beat my brainless brother in front of the whole damn vault half to death? Get me disowned by my parents? Be a dick every morning? Waking up screaming all the time?” It doesn’t mean that she doesn’t care about him. It just means that maybe, she’s not so sweet on him anymore. Before he can say much else, she’s quietly scolding him. “…You know, you’ve woken up like that almost every morning. Yelling…” She’s leaving him there, with a sour taste in his mouth.

She stops, with a hand on his doorframe. He opens his mouth to speak, but she beats him to it. “…I can’t stand hearing it anymore… you never used to have nightmares when I’d stay over…” His shoulders sag, as he thinks about Evangeline’s tortured face. His voice lacking softness. “-I’m not much for talkin’ right now. Or explaining myself to you. So, give me a minute and I’ll be right out, alright?” She lingers there, barefoot and all too familiar of a fixture in his childhood home.

She turns her head, lose curls bouncing over her shoulders. He thinks she’s gotten a lot louder with him, bossier. He can’t say that he hates the change. He can’t say that he doesn’t wish the curls were blonde. He hasn’t been able to get ahold of Angie since the party and it’s been killing him.

There’s a lot of things killing him lately.

Susie’s voice gives him news, which he doesn’t want to hear. “…Your mother’s got the shakes again...” His answer is gruff and bristled. “-That’ll happen. That happens. I already told you. Doc gave me the meds for her already. Just let me handle her and don’t go near her if she gets pissy.” It’s been a week since he forced her to quit drinking cold turkey- or as cold turkey as he knew he could, without killing her. He’d been making it a habit to take her rations coupons from her if he saw her with ‘em. Monitor them really.

He’d bought decent food with them for once. A big shock to who’d been working the depot when he went. Deloria’s buy drinks not food, right? He’d met up with James only briefly and knew what to ask for, only because his wife helped the drunks detox at the Rudder sometimes. Him being one of those drunks if the month was bad and they didn’t have the luxury of Fix-It.

Addictol was hard to come by and you could forget about ever getting any in 101. Didn’t carry it. Or The Overseer didn’t care. Butch was willing to believe both. He’d been playing nurse and therapist, since Susie moved in and his Ma’ started up with the hallucinations.

His mother’s recent shaking fits, fevers, and attempts to knock his block off, were the least of his problems. His problems had seemed to stack up over the week, since he’d last spoken to James about anything substantial. He hadn’t really had time to meet up with the man in private since the day in the reactor. Hadn’t had time to even really think. There was a reason his nightmares were piling up on him.

Susie’s parting words, don’t do much to ease his aching bones. “…I meant, that she’s looking for where you hid her coupons again.” Dropping that on him, she walks out on him, his bedroom door shutting behind her. His teeth grit and frustration washes over him. A hot, disgusting blanket of pissed off, which he can’t seem to crawl out from under. It’s hard doing the right thing.

He wasn’t used to it. He’s falling back into his mattress, coiled with tension. Running his hands over his face, thinking over Susie’s report. _‘She’s not hungry- The fridge is FULL! God…damn it Ma’. Every time you tried to quit…never changes does it, Ma’?’_ He knows why she’s looking for them and even if she hasn’t changed, he sure as hell has. He spreads his arms flat, cold blue eyes staring unfocused up at the steel grey of his ceiling again.

He knew quitting wouldn’t be easy for her. He’d just forgotten what it was like for a moment, whenever she’d tried to stop in the past. It’s just another thing he’s got to handle on the list. Babysitting his mother was easier than the other shit he had to deal with and even the easiest things, were no walk in the atrium. Worrying about how much focus James has for their little side project, was at the top.

His mother’s addiction, James’ radio silence, Susie’s family coming after him, Evangeline’s total vanishing act. Where was his break? He’s sinking into his mattress. He feels too old for all of it, but too stubborn to stop fighting or worrying. Shutting his eyes again, tired and yet too awake to even dream of falling back to sleep.

Getting Susie out of that house, was the only good deed to come out of the last week. Stevie was nowhere to be seen and that was no comforting fact. Butch was waiting for it too, for Stevie to crawl out of his rathole. He’d been quick and discreet, when he’d showed up at the Overseer’s secretary’s desk and filed all the papers.

He’d gone late in the night, before anyone might have guessed what he was doing.

Shared cohabitation policies, were initialed to acknowledge that they were understood. Consent to change dorms forms were sign by both he and Susie. Ration Division between Party A and Party B were checked and unchecked in all the right boxes. He’d laid them all out for Susie and convinced her to sign them, each of them agreeing on most everything. After very little fight from her, on her part, she was as good as living with him before anyone could stop them.

They two of them had, had to face Allen and Gloria together, both for legal reasons, but also because Susie wasn’t facing either of them alone without him. The Mack’s had gone so far as to get the Overseer involved, disputing it loudly and threatening various strikes or other parents rioting. The meeting had been stressful to say the least, even on his hardened Wastelander backbone. Butch was expecting to see Stevie there, accusing him of falsely coercing Susanna into living with him. He hadn’t been.

That was **eating** at him like a flesh eating disease. He’d told Susie to stay inside their shared living space and if she needed to go out, to ask him to go along with her. It had been all over the vault, by day 2. He was living with her and her parents were against it. Then?

On day 3… Wally found out.

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** 3 Days after Susie Had Been Living with the Deloria’s **

_12pm and everybody in the whole vault, looks like they’d gone on break. He’s walking across the mess hall, seeing a bunch of heads turning toward him. It bugs him. There’s no helping it though. People are gonna talk._

_He’s already nervous about what Angie’s heard. The scene Wally made that day, didn’t help anything. One minute, Butch’s walking across the mess hall and the next? Everybody’s heads turn to the far off East entrance and in comes Wally Mack._

_Barreling towards him, yelling like a roaring East Wind. “DID YOU FUCKING SCREW MY SISTER!?” Tray in his hands, Butch stops dead in his previously relaxed stride. He looks over his shoulder, in time to see Wally approaching fast, still sporting Tunnel Snake leather. His face as blotchy red as his hair. Butch finds himself cursing, his eyes scanning the room appraisingly. “Crazy… stupid…son of a-“_

_The whole room’s got their eyes on them. The whispering so loud, they should have all just been yelling like scalpers and charging tickets. People were already placing their bets, for the fight about to ensue. Wally’s pissed beyond reasoning. That’s just typical, for how Butch sees him again for the first time, after what feels like 30 years._

_Stopping a few feet away from him, face ugly, squawking at him. “-DID YOU FUCK MY SISTER?” The idiot doesn’t care if he makes a scene. Steel tray full of food in his hands, Butch squares his shoulders. He’s not afraid one lick. He’s not intimidated by Wally one fucking inch._

_He’s not a guilty little kid anymore and Wally’s playing with fire. Yelling at him, is about the **last** thing anyone would ever want to do. It gets…really quiet then. Big Bad Butch at a standoff with his fellow Snake in leather. A crowd is growing around them and nobody’s whispering anymore._

_It feels like someone’s about to be publicly executed._

_Wally’s voice pitches, unstable and immature. “…it’s not true right?” Butch doesn’t say a word. Even if he had something good to say, Wally wasn’t about to listen to him. He just stands there, ready for a fight, because hell if he didn’t need one. He knows that it’s coming._

_He knows there’s no talking to him._

_Wally’s large knuckles, come up to brush under his own nose. He’s so mad that he’s about to start cryin’ big ugly tears. Sniffing and shaking his head. Accusing him. There’s an edge of betrayal snaking through his tone, amidst the wounded pride. “I KNOW it’s not true!”_

_There’s a crushing weight in Butch’s chest._

_Wally didn’t give a fuck about Susie. Not really. He was just pissed that Butch wasn’t afraid of him. Not enough to beg for his permission or concede to him about anything. He was angry that he wasn’t made the boss of The Tunnel Snakes._

_When they were still in middle-school, he had argued and argued and KICKED at him about it. He was greedy. An entitled little prick. He’d had everything handed to him and he was STILL unfulfilled. He was STILL the meanest S.O.B. in the vault._

_Where the fuck did he get off?_

_He’s thinking back to Paul’s blood on his hands. Wally burning his own jacket, tearing it off. Disowning him right then and there. There’s an anger weighing down on his back. An old hurt in Butch’s chest._

_He didn’t expect it to come writhing up out of him. It’s something childish. Old. It’s all too violently adult. What right does Wally have to feel slighted?_

_When at the moment Butch needed him the most what did he do? When they could smell Paul’s body burning? When security came for him and his mother, and then beat ‘em both bloody? What’d he do? Oh, he played Maddog Mack to the very end, cold to the bone._

_The bastard tucked his tail and turned on him._

_So, when Mack jabs his chin at him and starts threating him, something breaks inside him. “I know it’s not true, because uh…I warned you what would happen, if you ever even thought about it.” Something so petty. Who was **he** to feel betrayed? This little piss-ant? This weak willed unreliable **bitch**?_

_Something snaps in Butch’s head. An old rage clouds his judgement. Butch slams his steel tray on the floor, thoughtlessly. It’s loud enough to leave the room jumping. Startled._

_This isn’t how he would have acted at 17. This isn’t how he’d have felt. Not this grave sense of being abandoned. Not this deep irritation over Wally’s selfishness. All he wants is to take it out of his hide._

_Guilt is replaced with sheer murderous rage. Butch doesn’t feel guilty at all. He feels tired, frustrated, and fed up with keeping his mouth shut. That’s all it felt like he ever did down in this rat maze. He’d kept his mouth shut around Wally more than anyone._

_Said what everybody wanted to hear. Played the part people expected. The bully. The hairdresser. The FAILURE._

_Everyone’s looking’ at him like he dangerous. It’s kind of wonderful. Maybe Wally’ll back off? Butch really doesn’t want that though, does he? Nah._

_He’s not the best brawler around, but he was better than most. He was good at hitting things. He was sure as hell better at punching than Wally. But he was never good enough at anything down here for anybody? Was he?_

_Not as a man, or as a friend. Not even for Wally’s sister. Deep down, there was a raw and bloody piece of his heart screaming. It was screaming, why the hell wasn’t he good enough? Who’d cared about Susie more than he had?_

_Why **not** him? _

_Like a beast to an annoying bug gnawing its ear, Butch bellows like thunder. “SO WHAT IF IT **FUCK** ING IS?!? I’M NOT GOOD ENOUGH FOR HER?!” Even Wally has a look of surprise. Too late to reel himself in. So Butch advances on him. Butch wants to hurt him._

_He wants to hit something with all his strength. Right then breaking Wally’s nose, feels like a great big reward. A reward for the last 4 or 5 days, of losing his mind doing NOTHING. Enclave, Evangeline, the lives of thousands lost mere days ago? FINALLY he’d be doing **SOMETHING**!_

_He felt like taking_ brutal and _**immediate** action. Killing Mack in the middle of the cafeteria, was the QUICKEST relief, to getting jack-shit-nothing done for too many hours. Oh and did he want to! That evil little part of himself._

_He gets in his face, hoping to smell fear. He wants fear in him. Humility on the prideful prick for once. He’s never been the patient old man. If you wanted patience, better call The Wanderer over, because he wasn’t._

_His lack of sleep is corroding his ability to be mature and wise. He wants to laugh at that. He’s never been either of those words. He’s the guy to act first, before wasting time on thinking too hard. He was an all in kind of guy._

_No guts no glory, right?_

_People are looking at him like he’s got the devil in his eyes. Maybe he does, old snake that he is. Something about Wally, just burns him. Wally’s big knuckled hands yank him up by his jacket, jerking him roughly. Butch just needs him to hit him once._

_Self-defense. That’s why he tore him limb from limb and what he’ll tell security. Why the hell did it still hurt so much, after all these years? Like a spoilt brat, Wally’s throwing words around. “I TOLD you! I warned you, Butch! Now **I** am going to rip your face off!” Butch’s on the brink._

_Wally’s given him a shit ton of reasons to punch his lights out. Bad blooded reasons that have held on for years. For a guy who needed to take action, it was torture being useless. Butch HATED feeling like he was being useless. It’s been days since James has said more than 2 words to him in passing._

_Did the doc make a break already? Where was Angie? What was she thinking? Was she mad at him for duckin’ out of her party? What was he **doin’** about it- any of it? _

_Butch’s mouth’s running off without mercy. “-How dumb do you gotta be to start this kind of shit **here**?” Wally smells like expensive cigars. Something like motor oil too. The smell curls Butch’s nose. It’s too familiar._

_Wally shoots his mouth off at him again. “Oh, that makes me dumb, huh? Why?” Wally throws his hand up at him, too close to his face. When he doesn’t flinch, shock flickers up into Wally’s eyes. Not enough shock to keep him from talking though. “Because I had to find out, what your **slimy** hide was doing with Susie, over the grape vine. Is that why?”_

_The scene twists him up so badly inside, that he wants to confront him alone. Quietly and respectably. He wants to talk instead of fight. To get the hell out of Wally’s face and do something **useful**. He’s so sick of being in the dark about everything._

_So Butch shoves him off, hoping to bruise him. “BECAUSE YOU’D THINK OUT OF EVERYONE IN THIS PLACE, I’D BE **GOOD ENOUGH** FOR HER! FOR **YOU**!” Butch shoves him again even as he’s tripping, choosing not to follow after him. “ **Whatsamatter, with you!”** His voice evens out by force. “Cut the gas! ‘n lose the volume while you’re at it, cuz I don’t feel like doin’ this with you right now!” Wally’s knocked back off his boot heels a little. He never really stood up to Wally. He should have._

_Wally gets real mean when his pride gets wounded. “If anyone’s getting **cut** today, it’s you, Butch! You’ve got some nerve!” Butch wanted to tear into that pride too. If Butch wasn’t keyed up like a starving mongrel on a chain that day, he wouldn’t have wanted to fight him. Not in the middle of that crowd. He’d have wanted to settle it like men, instead of like two kids on the playground._

_People are making bets out of the corner of his eye. They’re betting on Wally too. Against him. Wally decided to do this all public and uncivilized-like. Good._

_When he beat him down in front of everyone, nobody would forget it. Especially Wally. He’d have a chip on his shoulder forever. Butch feels a little smug about it. He ain’t goin’ to be the one to lose._

_He’s going to gut him, like somebody should have. His family name had people turning blind eyes to their crimes. Left and right, Wally used his influence to ruin people. He was going to try and ruin him too._

_But Wally didn’t know him anymore. He knew Wally though. Like the back of his Toothpick. Butch is betting on himself, when nobody else is. It gives him extra incentive, to let the rage out. “I’m not even with her!”_

_The cold Mack sociopathic stare, had to be genetic. A patent. A trademark. Wally’s cutting to the bone on purpose, soon as he smells blood in the water. “You’re not even good enough to **cut hair**.” When Wally comes up and shoves him back, Butch feels the words have more impact._

_He’s dancing back on his feet, while Wally’s twisting the knife in. “Susie’s too good for a pussy-ass hair dresser, like_ you _. You’re a **failure**.” Oh that’s rich. Butch feels that old wound between them start to bleed. His body’s weightless, until the word “failure” leaves Wally’s mouth. Butch feels the Wastelander inside him._

_It’s saying, ‘Make him bleed.’ It’s saying, ‘Put a bullet in his leg.’ It’s talking out loud in a growl so deep, Wally’s back goes stiff. “ **You listen here, you dirty rat.”** There’s something singing in the back of Butch’s head behind all the tired. His eyes are fixed on Wally’s legs from across the room._

_Snakes Eyes Deloria’s coming out and Butch can’t hold him. He feels his body coiling like broken springs. Everybody’s whispering again. Like a monster, his threat is guttural and hungry. **“…I eat rats.”** Butch can tell Wally’s still standing there._

_That’s about all he can decipher over his soldier’s brain screaming. What the soldier sees is bones. Bones to break and bones to bend. He sees an enemy to break. A snarl of grin, splays out nasty on his mouth. “ **I chew em up, ‘n crutch their bones. I eat them raw.”**   _

_He meets Wally’s eyes and roars quietly at him. **“Cuz I’m a**_ **snake _.”_** _Wally hadn’t been expecting him to threaten him. Not that kind of threat. Not that bloodthirsty gravelly tone of a killer. Butch clenches his fists and feels his nails digging into his palms._

_He’s got to chain his anger up, before he launches it at Wally. He tears the smile off his mouth and thinks of how he’ll feel after. “…I’m a **barber.** ” He holds onto the cool voice of reason, telling him that he’ll regret killing him. Butch spits at his boots and barks at him, letting his flare up of hatred settle. “You disrespectful, piece of **Vaultie** garbage.” He’s lowering his voice, thinking of Susie._

_This isn’t helping her. This isn’t helping him either. It’s **only** because he’s thinking of her. He’s not going to kill Wally and blame it on poor footwork. He’s not a killer if he doesn’t have to be._

_Butch tries to take the high road one more time. “How ‘bout you settle down… back off. Do this someplace else.” He’s digging his heels in, because he’s not running. He’s not running, but he’s not going to let Wally push him again. Wally’s got a sneer forming on his mouth, sarcastic. “Oh sure thing! Sure thing, **boss**.” Wally’s fists are tightening. _

_He’s off the rails. Wally’s squaring up and running his mouth. “ **EAT ME, then! RIGHT HERE, RIGHT NOW!”** Wally’s shaking off his threat. He shouldn’t have. Every word that comes out of his mouth, might finally light Butch’s fuse. _

_He’s pushing him over. Into that place, where Butch doesn’t **just** want him on the floor. He wants him in the ground. Security’s not even stepping in. The bastards are just waiting at the wings._

_They’re lining the walls of the mess hall. Watching. Allen Mack’s orders probably. A really bad choice for Wally. There he went again, using his family name to his own advantage._

_Butch scoffs under his breath at him. “You think, this is what **Susie** wants?” If Wally had any sense, he’d have walked away from him. Spittle’s flying out of his mouth, when Wally starts coming at him, long strides, sharp and fast on the tile. “ **To hell with her!”** Butch braces himself on the floor. Ready for him._

_Butch’s veins are full of ice, when he sees Wally’s hands moving into his jacket. Wally’s hand is fumbling inside and Butch **knows** what he’s looking for. Wally’s done talking, even as he’s goading him calmly. “I’m about to teach you what happens when _YOU _cross **ME**!” If Wally comes at him with the intent to kill, Butch can’t promise he won’t respond to it. With Wally’s words alone and his own state of unrest, he’s been ready to end him. _

_Butch is afraid of taking his life. He’s sleep deprived over the nightmares he’s been having. He’s out of control and looking for reasons to shed blood. Butch raises his hand up. He’s going to warn him, because he **has** to. _

_He’s not thinking right._

_He’s not going to kill Susie’s brother. He’s not going to kill him. He promises it to himself, even if he can’t be sure of it. His voice is over the top and authoritative. “ **You don’t want to do that, Wally.** ” It’s enough to make the other guy stop in his tracks._

_Wally looks at him in the eye. Finally. He really looks at him. It’s one pause, where Wally was having second thoughts. Only one._

_Enough for Butch to get in one more sincere attempt to cull the violence. Hand still held out, Butch shakes his head, playing the diplomat. **“** I’m not screwing your, Sister. You don’t have to. Let’s not do this.” Slowly, Wally’s putting the hand he’s got holding his jacket open down. Butch puts his hand down too._

_Like a prewar call for high noon, the end of lunch hour sounded over the PA System._

_Then Wally reveals his switchblade. Butch’s eyes harden. The flick of the blade opening is loud in the room. Wally starts walking at him, like serial killer. “ **You** don’t have any **balls**.” Toneless and cold, his words are calculated. “You’re a liar. A coward, Butch.” Butch eyes the knife._

_Wally’s talking shit, before it all hits the fan. “And your mother’s a drunk!” Butch bristles at the mention of his Ma’. Wally’s coming in swinging violently and he is **sloppy**. Butch just reacts. When Wally’s finally on him, he’s stabbing down to stick the knife into his shoulder. The knife’s sailing past his ear._

_A whistling breeze. A dusty, bloody battlefield. The smell of radiation. Butch steps back, adrenaline smoothing his movement. Deft in his dodge, Wally’s chin slams down into his shoulder, instead of the knife._

_Boom, Butch jams it upward to add to Wally’s fumble. Wally’s jaw slams up with a snap. His throat’s wide open. In the swell of the moment, Butch could take the knife. Use it._

_Cut a clean line, even as Wally’s spine is bending back. Butch seizes his wrist violently out of the air. Then he twists the knife free. It goes clattering off somewhere unseen where neither of them can use it and then Wally goes flying too. Butch uses his momentum against him._

_The sound of bones and heavy human flesh hits the ground with a smack. Somebody gasps. Another swears over their lost bet. After a moment, the murmuring in the crowd gets louder. It all becomes background noise in Butch’s mind._

_Wally tried to stab him. The fact of it takes a second to settle itself. But when it does? Butch sees red. He didn’t have to kill him._

_There were so many things that were worse than death. Filled with pure edges, Butch feels like he’s huffing glass in his lungs. It hurts to breathe. He’s not sure when he gave up on a peaceful solution. Butch just hears the hopeless ire in his own voice and accepts it. “_ You _want to kill **me**?!”_

_Butch swerves on his heels to find Wally behind him. On the ground, with a spilt lip. Prone. Scrambling to get up. Butch wants to knock some of his teeth out, while he’s spitting fire through his. “You **dumb** mother **FUCKER?!** ”_

_His boots stomp heavy towards the worm now writhing around on the floor. He’ll hurt him. He won’t kill him, but he’ll hurt him. Wally’s still trying to get to his feet, but Butch is walking so fast, that he’s stumbling away from him. Wally’s stumbling while Butch just keeps on yelling smooth. “You’d **fuckin** ’ put me DOWN?!” _

_Butch counts to three, still bellowing blind. “OVER THIS?!” One, two, three and Butch is acting out. While Wally’s almost up, he plants a boot into his chest and kicks the him down The crowd scatter’s when Wally goes skidding back with a grunt. If Wally wanted a fight, he’d give him one._

_It’s all background noise, when the crowd starts cheering or booing. Legs all sprawled out, Wally’s up on his palms, and looking crazed. Butch gets to a knee and rips him up by his vault suit, cursing at him. “ **FUCK YOU!** ” He’s not worth ruining the leather. Even when Butch tears him up, Wally’s still snarling mad._

_Butch curses the day they became friends. Jerking him around violently, Wally can’t get a word out over him. “ **FUCK YOUR PRIDE!”** Wally’s fingers are scratching at his wrists, but Butch don’t feel it. Butch brings his fist back and cracks his knuckles on Wally’s jaw. It’s brutal._

_It’s not an even a fight._

_Hunched over, Wally’s spitting out blood. Butch stops himself from knocking him out. It’s just enough of a stall, for Wally to knock his hands off his vault suit. Butch lets him go and gets back up. He takes a few steps back._

_He could kill him, but that’s not fair. It’s not Wally’s fault for being so dumb. He was born dumb. He wasn’t aware of who he’d pissed off. Butch wants to feel the rush of the rumble._

_He’s laughing like a Wastelander in the face of his own demons. His temper’s running loose. He’s done keeping his mouth shut. He’s done playing the Bully, to fund Wally’s fragile ego. Bully’s are weak._

_Butch wasn’t a bully anymore. He was a mercenary. Butch is laughing, running his hands back through his hair, when he says it. “Well, if my Ma’s a drunk, **Wally…** ” Wally’s staring up at him, murderous, while Butch vomits up his name like it tastes bad. It really does._

_Butch’ll give him the opening he wants too. Butch is jonesing for it now. He **wants** Wally to punch him. So, smiling with a dead eyed kind of cruelty, Butch hits him where home is. “…then yours is a **punching bag**.” That makes the blood drain right out of Wally’s face._

_Butch never said it, because it wasn’t **honorable**. He never cut to bleed, because they were **pals**. Wally was nothing and Butch was driving it home. Wally’s stupid, but he’s blind too. That’s worse._

_Butch spreads his arms out wide, welcoming the hate on Wally’s face. “’N what do you do about it?” Wally’s seething and when Butch pounds his chest, he’s finally back on his feet again. “ **NOTHING!** ” Rage must start in the blood. It sure as hell lived on in the Mack bloodline. When red blooms into Wally’s already ruddy complexion, it’s the face of boiling blood._

_Butch laughs at him. Growling like a dog on a leash, Wally’s got nothing to say to him. Butch has nothing but the truth and it’s **hurtful**. Stuck there, Wally’s frozen. Butch feels something of the Old World in him._

_Fingers flicking under his chin, Butch pushes him to move, taunting him. “Mangia Merda e muori!” Italian. His mother taught him how to curse in Italian. His father taught him what it was like not to have one. Evangeline taught him how to be a man._

_He was going to teach Wally, who he was._

_Butch yells louder. “You_ dickless _**bastard!”** Wally’s so much younger than him. Easier to read. Easier to piss off and screw up. Butch can keep a clearer head than him._

_So he stands open and watches Wally’s fists shaking. **“COME AT ME! No blades!”** He pats his jaw, snapping the finally string, holding Mack across the room. “Right here! Show me how your **Ma** ’ likes it!” Wally comes at him like a raging boulder down a sheer drop. “ **I’LL KILL YOU!!”** Butch had a clear mind and he hadn’t planned on moving. He knew what he was doing._

_He wanted to get hit. He was hoping he could feel something again. Something like home again. Butch wanted to fuckin’ **feel** it. That weak willed attempt at a punch._

_Butch wanted_ him _to feel **failure**. The failure of hitting him and getting **nothing** for it. No tears. No anger. **Nothing**._

_When Wally’s fist collides with him, it’s a dull jerk. A thud. Bruising pressure and then the numb motion of his neck turning. It leaves his brain snapping awake and he’s been **so** tired._

_Butch was a junkie looking for a fix. A slave fighter looking for freedom in The Pitt. A man without a gun and only his fists. Butch shouldn’t have humored Wally’s temper. Not here._

_They backpedal. Butch feels the high of the punch and it stills him. It stills him long enough, for Wally to drag him backwards and onto the nearest table. Bodies are scattering, trying to avoid them. The clattering of food trays and food, hits the floor and everything is muffled to Butch._

_There’s a ringing in his ears and fingers around his throat. It’s just him and Wally. Nobody else. No one to stop him. Butch has Wally’s wrists and Wally’s trying to choke him._

_Gripping Wally’s hands in a vice hold, Butch feels the **rush**. Butch just stares up at him, smiling. If there was any hesitation in the red head, he didn’t hear it in his voice. “You’re a dead man, Butch. A dead man!” Butch had been a dead man at least a thousand times already. He was the most deadly, in those moments._

_He was more alive, when he was on the edge of dying._

_Butch is still holding onto himself. His common sense. His maturity. When he speaks up underneath his attacker, that’s not the part of him talking. “ **Prove it.”** Wally’s grip lets up a little._

_There. Maybe he saw it. Maybe he saw it in his eyes. The byproduct of the Wasteland. The reaper’s stare._

_The stare everybody who’d ever killed, had stained their soul to come by._

_Just breathing Wasteland air, could give you the look. Butch second guessed himself too. He felt the bloodlust in him crowning. Building. Wally?_

_Wally was talking to **Snake Eyes.** Dead Eye, Deloria. The **Lone Wanderer’s** husband. That old, serpent that you didn’t want to piss off at the bar. Fun and games, till you threatened his life._

_Then all bets were off._

_With a curled lip, Wally draws back his fist. For an unreadable moment, he just holds it there. A flash of fear in his eyes, as Wally glances at the switchblade on the floor. He was thinking about needing that knife. Butch could see it._

_Then Wally thought better of it. Good. He didn’t need that knife and Butch would slit his throat bloody if it came to that. He didn’t know it for sure, but he was toeing the line of restraint. He was on the verge of doubting, if he could keep himself in check._

_Then Wally’s knuckles are coming down. They’re sailing through the air and Butch just lets them come. He doesn’t stop looking at Wally. Not till the first blow lands. Then it’s all over._

_He **missed** the sound._

_A crack. A snap. His neck jerks to one side. Butch feels the flow of it like a breath of relief. A gnarled gash of grin so unsightly, spreads on his bloody mouth because he feels **real** again._

_It’s been rubbing him the wrong way for the last 5 days since he got there. People keep looking at him like he’s nothing all over again. It burns him. Who’s nothing? Not him._

_If Wally hadn’t been unsettled before, he **was** right then. Butch has locked eyes with him and blood’s gushing from his nose. And he’s **smiling**. Through the blood and the pain, Butch is **grinning**._

_He’s grinning, because it’s been rubbing him wrong for the last 5 days. People? They keep staring at him. Like he doesn’t matter. Like he’s **nothing** again._

_He’d become real good pals with death after so many years. He wasn’t the same after a while. Not like he’d been, when he was fresh out of the vault. Killing became his way of life. A necessary evil._

_A head rush of euphoria. Natural. Like a good cup of coffee, an acquired taste. It’s been chewing on his heart like a flea nest, since he came back. People kept looking at him like he was nobody._

_…but he was **soooomebody**._

_The kind of blood he had on his hands, was almost as thick as The Lone Wanderer’s. That blood soaks into you and you either learn to deal with it or you die. He was dangerous. Without his wife, he’d have probably become a raider. The loss would have been what broke his tender spirits._

_The very thought terrified him. The part of Butch that enjoyed it. The darkest pieces of himself. He was afraid of it. Without his Angel on his shoulder, he’d have tipped over the scale and gone bad._

_Real bad._

_Wally was stunned. He was stunned at his smile and disgusted when Butch began to laugh. Then Butch spat a mouthful of blood at him and he was **defenseless**. He rears up like a bat out of hell and head-butts him. Brutal and fast._

_There’s swearing. A cry of pain. The crack of another broken nose. They’re twins now, Butch decides. There’s more blood too._

_Butch liked that just fine._

_A break for a break. A hurt for a hurt. Even. Equal. Butch didn’t really feel like being Wally’s equal._

_Butch kicks out one of Wally’s knees. It twists and snaps so hard, Butch wonders if it’s broken. He’s fairly sure it’s not shattered. Somebody screams. Every soul loses their breath at once._

_Wally didn’t have self-control and Butch wasn’t Wally’s equal. He had a grip on himself. He was older and stronger and just plain **tougher** than him. He wasn’t nearly as big as he was a month ago, but that worked to his advantage. He’d kept himself from shattering his kneecap._

_He didn’t need to hold back so much to do it either._

_Wally’s right knee buckles off to the side. 1, 2-BAM! Butch lands an uppercut, which would make a prize fighter blush. Wally’s falling and stumbling off him. It’s invigorating._

_Wally had clearly thought he out matched him. Everyone else had too. Jaw bruised and lip split, his own nose bloodied to match Butch’s, Wally’s still stumbling back. He’s stumbling for a while and Butch is fast. He shoots up after him, back on his own feet._

_So fired up, he could take another swing. The moron’s totally open. He’s fighting the fog of war though, so he doesn’t. He swipes the blood off his upper lip with his arm roughly. He remembers coming back to himself._

_Catching his cool. Finding his breath again. Butch was shaking. The knowledge had him rattled. He was genuinely angry._

_It had been exhilarating, but terrible. An old wound that he had forgotten to drain. He could kill him, but it still wouldn’t fix it, would it? Wally looked like he knew he’d met his match. It was written all over him._

_Eyes wild, Wally brings his hands to his face, and smears the blood off his mouth. It was the ugliest face, Butch had ever seen him make. It was the face of a man who knew he’d lost. A man who wanted nothing but more blood. Butch just wanted it to end._

_His voice is gravel, when he finds coherent words again. “Feel good to take low blows at me? Huh, Boy?” This was no fight. It was sad. Butch spits blood and Wally’s choking on it. Then Wally screams, hands gingerly touching his beak. “You broge ma fuggin’ no’! You a’hole!”_

_It was the least Butch owed him. The two of them are breathing so hard, their shoulders are heaving. Butch isn’t used to walking away from a fight. He’s used to fights where one guy walks out a ghost, unless it’s friendly. This wasn’t friendly._

_If it ever really was between them._

_Butch puts his foot down. His maturity shines through without him even seeing it. Walking away is the right to do. It was the smart thing to do. So, huffing and done with him, Butch goes to walk away. “-I’m walking away, Wally. Back off. ‘M done.”_

_He concedes the fight. That only seems to add insult to injury in Wally’s eyes. Wally’s snorting blood and refusing to take the hint. “-Oh, you’re done? Well too bad! I’m not!” A desperate man could be even more deadly, than a skilled one. Butch forgot that, but it was a lesson he’d learned._

_Desperate men, couldn’t be reasoned with. Butch forgot that too, even as he raised up both his hands and tried. “-You win. Now I’m walkin’ away.” Butch didn’t give a molerat’s ass about winning. In fact, once his energy caught up with him, all he could think about was Susie. Susie at home and Stevie in the wind._

_Wally was in the dark, because he had to be, right?_

_Else wise, where did he get off trying to speak for Susie? To be upset over her reputation? He didn’t know her. He didn’t even do this for her did he? He said it himself._

_Wally was only thinking of **Wally** and Butch couldn’t bear to look at him anymore._

_So he turns his back on him and does the right thing. He walks away. Then everyone inhales slowly and loudly, because Wally’s reached over for the knife. It was forgotten at his boots, till Butch turned around. Butch hears boots screeching on the tile._

_Wally had always fought dirty, but there was something **foul** that stuck in Butch’s teeth. The afterthought, before Wally even came close to him. That Wally had no real love for him as a brother. No real loyalty as his childhood friend. No honor and no heart._

_Wally’s roaring from behind him. “-COWARD!” It’s a desperate move. A dishonest one. And for what? Because Wally couldn’t take the loss?_

_Butch knew it when he picked up the ding of metal leaving the tile in his ear. He knew what Wally had done. Butch heard the lack of empathy in his voice and he was shaken by it. Butch knew then beyond all doubt, that Wally cared about himself first and everybody last. As soon as Wally got too close Butch felt it._

_Butch felt his heart break and the killer inside himself cutting free._

_Where was he when Paul was dying? Where was he when his Ma’ was dying when the roaches came? When his sister needed him? When the rebels did? Who the hell did this punk think he was playing at **protecting**?_

_Butch ducks. It’s graceful. It’s smooth, when Butch turns around. Well timed. It’s lethal, when he knocks his fist up right into Wally’s eye._

_The disloyalty in the ginger, sets him on him like a madman. That really curdled Butch’s blood, that kind of thing. Even Raider’s knew how to be loyal to their own. Butch slams his whole bodyweight, right into Mack’s abdomen. The breath gets knocked right out of him._

_There’s no joy in it anymore for Butch._

_The switchblade slips out of Wally’s hand and Butch sweeps it up. With a heavy crash Wally’s ass hits the floor. Smack, crash, bam. Butch has the knife. Skid, thump, boom._

_Wally’s on his back and Butch is on him. Wally tries to lift his head, but doesn’t get the chance. Butch lashes out and punches him with all his weight behind it. His skull snaps painfully against the floor, with a sickening crack. It’s almost enough to knock him out._

_Butch really must have been smaller, because it doesn’t. The **fear** of the unexpected is howling at every onlooker. Wally’s got 2 shiners and a broken nose. No one expected Butch to win. Wally least of all._

_Wobbling and struggling, Wally’s pushing to get away. Struggling to get Butch off him, but Butch has got him by his vault suit again, with the knife against his chest. When he tries to kick his feet, it’s not worth his effort. Butch just slams him down again. Nobody’s doin’ a damn thing about it either._

_The whole security force is there and the most they’ve done is give them room. The only time Butch saw any of them move, was when he was slamming Wally’s head into the tile. It’s a joke. The whole vault is a joke. Butch ain’t laughing about it either._

_He can’t hide the sheer hate in his voice. “WHO **the fuck** d’you think you’re talkin’ to?” Teeth gritted, Butch shakes him like a rag doll. “ **Who did you think, you were gonna stab?”** Butch was there for Wally, each time he needed him in life. Every birthday, every holiday, and every revenge scheme, Butch was there. Wally used him for everything he could and then tossed him._

_Butch reels back a fist and blood goes everywhere. When spit and red gets splatter across the floor, Wally stops struggling. He gets that moment of clarity that he’d fucked up, but Wally’s too late to take it back. By then Wally’s aware, that Butch isn’t himself. Butch isn’t playing around._

_Wally’s words are garbled with rage and distress. **“-I drusted you!”** Wally had never trusted him. Not with Susie. Not with anything. When Butch palms the knife into his other hand, he’s not thinking. When he takes that knife to Wally’s windpipe, finally, security jolts forward all at once._

_Butch is screaming too loud to hear the security force jump to life. “ **CALL ME A COWARD AGAIN! SAY IT!”** The guards were yelling at him to drop the knife. There was yelling from the guards and from the crowd. Yelling and squabbling everywhere._

_Butch had lost it._

_He pressed the blade into Wally’s skin. Drew blood. Wally actually flinched, as he went on. “You spineless… **Overseer’s bootlicker** …” Then Butch remembers common sense. Decency. _

_He tosses the knife away and Wally looks relieved. He slaps the look right off his face, because he doesn’t get to look relieved. He doesn’t get to have that. After beating him black and blue, Butch couldn’t stop screaming at him. “ **If you come at me from behind again, I’LL BREAK YOUR DAMN LEGS!!”** Wally’s got his hands scrabbling at his arms, but the fight’s already been fought._

_Out of breath, Butch couldn’t come down. Not for bit. Not till he thought about Susie again. The whole room flinched when he bellowed. “-For one damn minute! **THINK! You** **think about HOW SHE FEELS**!!” Wally’s looking at him with disgust._

_He doesn’t say a word though. Maybe he can’t, because his face is swelling. Butch can’t catch his breath. His hands were shaking. He hadn’t expected to be so out of control._

_He was one step away from the point of no return. One glance around the room told him that. Butch yanks him close and his voice is low. “You don’t know **shit** about why she’s stayin’ with me now, do you?” Whether Wally looked puzzled or not, Butch couldn’t tell. Butch just knows that when he let go of him, it wasn’t to hurt him._

_It was to keep himself from throttling him. Looking down at him, Butch is back on his feet. He’s scoffing at his ex-bestfriend, towering over him. “…You **selfish** prick!” He’s not sure where the tears tried to come from, but they were coming. There was nothing but deep remorse._

_The watery sound infected his voice and Butch couldn’t stand it. “Pulling this kind of **crap**!” Butch took a step back. Hands combing wildly through his hair, Butch couldn’t stand him. Shaking his head, sighing with nothing but pain, Butch calls him out for what he is. “_ You _try to knife me in the back, ‘n **I’m** the coward?” Now that makes Butch laugh._

_It tasted bitter. The whole encounter tasted bitter. Wally’s heart was so hardened, nothing he said mattered. Butch was man enough to know when to show weakness to drive a point home. So, pointing a finger at him, Butch lets the sorrow come out and forces himself, to say it for Susie. “How about you **ask** her why she’s with me? Instead of starting a BLOODBATH?!”_

_He points to the exit and maybe this time, he didn’t have to yell so loud. “ **You care so much, then how about you go TALK to her! Instead of tuckin’ your tail, behind your ego!** ” Butch can’t tell if Wally’s listening or not. He’s holding his jaw and silent as the dead. Just glaring up at him. Tomorrow, you could take one look at him, and know who walked away worse._

_Butch is still up to his eyes in adrenaline. Butch rubs his hand over his face, only to feel the result of getting decked. He puts too much pressure on his nose and hisses. He does it a little harder to ground himself. Then he kicked Wally in the leg and turned away again._

_He turned away with one last word. “But don’t come looking for me again, cuz I can’t even look at you. I’m **done** wanting to talk to you.” Then Butch left him there. He left Wally there sprawled. His ego more bruised than the rest of him. Wally would have preferred breaking an arm to a bruised ego._

_The bastard deserved it._

_Nobody tried to stop him. Likely, the guards were afraid of disobeying Allen. When Officer Gomez showed up, they had the common courtesy to scramble. Nobody stopped him though. They gave him a wide berth, as he swiped the switchblade up off the ground._

_Gomez ordered everyone to break it up. He shouted, “Alright, show’s over!” while Butch stormed out of the mess hall like a dark cloud. It hadn’t helped anything. It wasted his time and left him feeling raw. After coming close to breaking his knuckles on the nearest wall, Butch left the mess behind him._

_He didn’t look back._

****

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He hadn’t talked to Wally since.

His Pipboy picks right then, to start going off on his nightstand. Catching a deep breath into his mouth, he’s sweeping his legs out of bed and swiping a clean shirt out of his dresser. He’s pulling the grey cotton over his head, before flickin’ the hula dancer absently with his fingers. Rushing out of his room into the hall, he steps around the corner, expecting to see his Ma’ going through the cabinets. Feeling achy, still sporting a very light bruise around where James had reset his nose, he’s all words and no thought, when he rounds the corner. “Ma’ if you’re up, let me take care of makin’-“

The smell of coffee, eggs, and toast hits him in the face. His heart flutters at the sight that greets him. For a moment, it’s a flash of Angie, all soft blonde hair and warm skin washing the dishes in Megaton. _‘Good morning to you too, Pretty Boy.’_ Rubbing his eyes, blinking away the vision, the odd memory lapse vanishes. It’s Susie at the stove, not Evangeline.

His mother’s sitting at the kitchen table with a red cup full of coffee, not looking nearly as angry or miserable as he expected. Her greying brunette hair looks brushed and she’s already in her vault suit, holding a hand of cards. Susie looks up at him, but doesn’t say anything, and just goes back to scrambling the eggs. When his mother welcomes him, his chest squeezes. “Mornin’, Butchie Baby.” His eyes dart to the cup steaming beside her and the Deloria matriarch rolls her eyes at him. “Quit your fussing.”

Before she snickers at him, joking with him. “Don’t worry. It ain’t Irish.” He nods his head and gives her a dazed, incoherent reply. “Ah-huh…” Glancing towards Susie, she’s walking over to his mother, with 2 plates of eggs, toast, and some kind of red fruit. It’s surreal seeing fruit from the green house again. Its unreal seeing how much happier his mother looks that morning.

Susie looks good too.

She’s eyeing him as she fetches her own cup of coffee, using a different colored mug, that’s as blinding bright yellow as her dress. Her tone’s softer than it was when she woke him up. “There’s coffee in the pot for you. If you’re looking for eggs I already made you some.” She tilts her head at the microwave sitting beside the sink, while Butch feels the peace of normalcy start to settle over him. A peace that he’d never had here before. “If they’re cold, they’re already in the microwave ready to go.”

He rubs his palm over his mouth, feeling a smile forming.

He’s shaking his head at her, thinking that she’d make for a good wife. “…Gotcha. Smells good, Sus’.” He laughs tiredly, grateful that she’s settled in so well. ”You look good too.” His mother pipes up from the kitchen table, sounding tired, but also younger than she ever has. “The Cook and I were about to play a round of Old Maid. Want me to deal you in, Son?” He’s thinking of the time and he can’t, saying as much with relaxed familiarity. “Sorry, Ma’. Don’t have the time. Got work in 30.” He takes a few long strides, kisses his mother on the temple and rubs her frail shoulders with his hands. “Maybe after I close up tonight.”

It’s comforting, being able to be gentle with her. Thankful for her. His mother hasn’t said anything about his change in demeanor, but he can sense the appreciation there. Susie’s speaking up sarcastically, as she turns off the stove and runs water over the hot pan in the sink. “Since when have you **ever** cared about being on time, for anything?” Butch snorts, making his way towards the bathroom, looking forward to pouring himself that coffee after he gets out.

He calls to Susie over his shoulder. “You got butter on the front of your skirt!” He hears Susie growl and the district sound of her brushing off her dress. He steps into the bathroom and when he looks in the mirror and sees himself, it never looks like him. He’ll thank Susie for everything when he gets out. For the food, for treating his mother like her own, and for worrying over him.

Right now, all he’s worrying about is getting the Barber Shop opened on time.  
  
  


**((TBC))**

**Author's Note:**

> ((more to come...also, my profile's got some answers as to why my work was taken down by me, lol. I'm praying to find it again...post it again. I thank you all for understanding and every good comment I've ever gotten, I carry with me like a badge of pride. Thank you all so much!))


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